


Thick As Thieves

by ur_the_puppy



Series: the art of stealing hearts [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, bit of magic, heda!lexa, i have no self-control honestly, thief!clarke, why study when you can write fanfic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-01 04:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 59,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12697218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ur_the_puppy/pseuds/ur_the_puppy
Summary: When something is stolen right from Heda herself, it’s a decision that is made, much to Anya’s dismay, to enlist the help of a thief to get back what’s hers. But she is Heda, so it is not just any thief she can find, but the greatest one. The one known as Wanheda, because of their ability to slip anything and slip out of any situation with an ease only Death should be able to do. They’ve never been caught or killed, and so this name was bestowed upon them. Wanheda has never dared to openly cross Heda though, so for most of her reign Heda has let them be.But now, she needs their help.It’s a dangerous gamble to trust a thief.orclarke is a master thief but it’s completely unintentional when she ends up stealing lexa’s heart





	1. Gold Trembles Beneath Your Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been writing a lot of angst recently and needed something to balance myself out. I was playing assassins creed and since I have absolutely no self-control wondered how Clarke would be as a thief and… it went down hill from there. This will be very short though compared my other fics and is mostly just for me to enjoy myself because I am an absolute sucker for badass Clarke. anyway, ill shut up now, I hope you enjoy.  
> (for that Full Immersion listen to: Bottle by Texture Like Sun) (also it's only me that goes over this so all typos and errors are proudly mine, if typos are something that drive you to arson, kindly point them out and i'll fix them for you)

It’s funny, Clarke thinks, as she’s dragged on her feet, her hands bound behind her back and a sack hauled over her head, reducing her vision to a blurry yellow, the position she’s now finding herself in. How even if she’s known for never being seen, being more like a shadow than a human, that unease in the corner of minds, a breath of touch against a person’s wrist. How no matter just how high she’s built herself up onto her pedestal, her reputation, it all meant nothing in face of what was coming for her. Her knives had been stripped from her the moment she had woken up from her forced unconsciousness. There is nothing on her now, none of her daggers or blades to give her comfort.

The only thing she has is the burning anger in her belly.

She would laugh at her predicament if she weren’t so keenly aware she was probably walking to her death.

Her captor from behind shoves her forward when her steps slow a little, and Clarke just barely bites down on her growl forming in her throat. It’s no use to try and start a fight, not without such an extreme lack of knowledge. She doesn’t know where she is, let alone _who_ she’s with, but if the smooth stone floor beneath her feet means anything its that she’s somewhere far richer than the slums she grew up in. Meaning her captors are likely to be highly trained. The thought tightens the knot in her chest, and for second she feels her breath get snatched from her lungs, tangled in her throat, but then she hears the sound of doors being slammed open and all of a sudden she’s being roughly pushed onto her knees.

There’s an instant hush, a hard burst of silence the second she’s in the room. The quiet pushes onto her shoulders like heavy claws and she’s sure all that can be heard is her own harsh breathing from being manhandled through wherever she is. She knows whatever place she’s in it’s big, they had even gone in an _elevator_ at one point, joints and the sounds of creaking ropes the only reassurance that she wasn’t going to fall to her death. The smells give a little away too, the burning hint of smoke from the many torches, the lack of sweat and dirt in the air. At least she knows its not bandits that have her. Not a stuck up aristocrat hell bent on killing her for what she’s stolen. There’s too much of that tang of metal in the air for that.

She’s sure people surround her with weapons, swords and daggers, there’s no doubt on that.

How wonderful.

“ _Dison Wanheda?_ ” a voice calls out, and the feminine quality it holds, the unexpected smoothness and calm of it makes Clarke frown a little under the sack over her head. Because a voice that gorgeous _surely_ can’t be a killer’s can it?

The guard who had shoved her to the floor grunts. “ _Sha Heda,_ ” she answers, and before Clarke can even widen her eyes at what she’s sure she must have misheard, the sack is suddenly yanked off her head and instead she’s blinking to adjust to the onslaught of light. Her brow crinkles, and finally, she’s able to take in the scene around her. The throne in front of her, the towering warrior standing sentry next to it so large it wouldn’t surprise her if she found him to be related to a giant of some sort.

But really all of Clarke’s attention solely falls onto the woman sitting in her throne.

Heda herself.

Oh _fuck_.

-

ONE DAY EARLIER

The job is simple.

Then again, most of her jobs are.

But simple doesn’t mean _easy_ and that fact isn’t lost on her right now. She stands in the shadows, a position she frequents so often she’s grown uncomfortable in daylight, her black hood shrouding her face and boots just tipping over the edge of the beam she sits herself on. She’s still in her crouch, practically invisible above the rows of stalls below her, warm flickering light from the lit torches not reaching high enough to touch her. Clarke is calm, as she surveys the scene below her, the light black leather more a second skin than armour. It’s not ideal in a fight, but she’s had the leather for years. Briefly she lets her eyes fall shut, takes in a deep breath of air through her nose, and as she feels a tug at the corner of her lips at the nip of the coming winter winds around her, they flutter open and she drops.

She lands with barely a sound in the nearby alley, slowly drawing herself up as she creeps forward. The breeze is a little stronger in a tightened space like this and Clarke feels it brush against her face, cooling at the black face paint around her eyes, a thick mask that arches up to the edge of her face near her ear before coming down in hard strikes. The air is cool and Clarke was sure that if she didn’t have the dark bandana mask covering the bottom half of her face her breath would come out in white wisps. She edges right to the end of the wooden wall behind her, peaking a head out at the front of the house she was stood by.

It had been embarrassingly easy to find her way onto the roof of the house. She’d used the neighbouring building just a few steps away, hence the alleyway, waiting till no eyes were on her before she leapt across. She would give them that they at least had a guard patrolling up top, but with patience had she easily counted his steps and his pattern of where he went, waiting for the chance before she jumped over and quickly wrapped her arms around his throat and chocked him unconscious.

Her eyes narrow as she takes in the small garden splayed out in front of her, an iron fence snaking around and two guards standing tall at the gap in the metal, tensing up any time a random person trailed an inch too close as they walked by. There was no way in from the roof but she had spotted the window at the base near here, and so casting the unsuspecting guards one last glance she quietly brings herself back and lets her sight focus on the window. It sits just above her head so with wary eyes does analyse the area around her. Not the first time does she curse her short stature before heaving a quiet sigh, and carefully does she dig her fingers on the slight perch of the windowsill.

She is slow to pull herself up, gently digging her boot into the wall to help her haul herself higher, and with practiced ease does she peak her head over the sill. When she finds no one through the glass but just the soft warmth of a lone lit candle she finishes herself the rest of the way and carefully balances on the tip of her toes, still crouched and just having enough wood to perch herself on. Her hands press against the window gently and it doesn’t surprise her much when she tries to pull up and find it’s locked. She leans forward and glances down through the window to find a latch at the bottom on the other side, preventing the opening.

Clarke’s slow smile is hidden beneath her mask.

She lets her mind focus on the lock before raising one of her hands in the air, palm up, and once she feels that familiar warmth rush in her veins she slowly drags her hand upwards and she watches the latch rise with her movements. Clarke casts one last furtive glance behind her and peers closer through the glass, double checking for any sign of movement, and at finding nothing she tries again at lifting the window.

It doesn’t make a sound as it slides open.

Her steps are feather light as they meet the wooden floors, a rug helping in cushioning her feet. She doesn’t close the window in case a quick escape is necessary and so instead of lingering she carefully begins canvassing the room. There’s barely any light and not a breath of sound. It gives Clarke relief as her intel about the owner’s pattern of drifting to a tavern to drink to oblivion once a week had been correct. If she’s lucky then the house is empty.

But experience has taught her things are quick to go belly up.

So she remains quiet as she quickly works through the room.

It’s a necklace she’s looking for, but it’s not one made of jewels and gold. The woman who had described it to her, a dirty echo of a woman who had nothing but the rags on her back, told her it was all she had left of her lover, a last memory as the only string left to remember them buy. And yes, Clarke’s not above it all to not be able to admit she’s always had a heart that bled too easy, blood that burned too fast, so it had been easy to accept the woman’s request. To take back the necklace that a noble had ripped right out of her hands because she dared to look him in the eye.

The house isn’t small, but she knows where to look. Things like this are normally easy to find. There’s no complex hidden passageway to hide away the very richest of their valuables, puzzles that are more annoying that anything for her. This is a trophy, proof of the man’s inflated ego. Perhaps not grand enough to keep propped up in the open but enough so that it’d be left around carelessly. When Clarke sees nothing of the wooden beaded necklace she’s searching for on the lower floor she makes her way to the stairs. She’s cautious to put her weight against the steps, but at finding only a slight creak, she easily makes her way up without sound.

It leads up to a hallway with doors lining the sides and after only hesitating for a moment she creeps forward to the only one with a keyhole. It’s the last on the right, the door cleaner than the others, the red wood polished to shine. She tries the knob and finds it locked. She knows she’s starting to lose time now, the stalls outside she knows are probably beginning to close down, and she won’t have the cover of sound and bustling crowds to make an easy exit. She’s quick to focus on the lock and feel the warmth in her chest before she reaches out her hand, stopping just before the tip of finger can touch the lock. She waves her hand to the side and a small curl of relief eases her shoulders as she hears the sliding of metal and the click of the lock.

She grabs the handle and twists its open.

Clarke slips into the room like a shadow, her movements faster than before as she makes her way around the empty bedroom. Her mental clock is ticking faster as she eases open drawers and runs her hands over any dents in walls. It’s only once she hears the unexpected sound of the door swinging open from downstairs, the thud of heavy boots, when she suddenly spies the necklace peaking out from under a discarded shirt. She’s instantly diving for it and snatching it into her grasp, her heart picking up speed when the pad of feet grows louder, faster, Clarke checking only briefly that it is indeed what she’s looking for before she’s stuffing it in one of the many pockets at her side.

She had closed the door thank the Gods when she snuck in so she’s fast for her sight to latch onto the only window in the room. The noble isn’t meant to be home yet. She knows this. It’s confusing and infuriating to hear the steps below grow closer and pound against the stairs as they flood up. Clarke frowns slightly when she realises it’s not just one set of steps, but _multiple_ , heavy and fast and rushed. With purpose.

They knew she’s here.

Someone had tipped her off.

A growl rips its way from her throat before she can stop it. It doesn’t matter though; she’s out of time. She hastily spins around from where her hands were trying to slide up the window when she hears the creak of the hinges as the door is slowly pushed open. Clarke’s hand shoot out and with a flush of warmth in her arm the door is slammed shut with a sudden burst of wind. She quickly flicks her fingers and she knows it’s locked now at least. It doesn’t help much though. The window in front of her was never made to open.

Her eyes snap around the room, and it takes great mental effort to ignore the sudden slamming of the door, presumably as the intruders try to break it down. The glass of the window is thick but it doesn’t stop Clarke from snatching her favourite dagger from her side and smashing it into the glass. The glass cracks open with harsh cracks and she’s frantic to keep hitting at it, desperate to get enough clear so she can jump through.

It’s just as she deems it safe enough that the door behind her slams open and right as she makes a move to dive forward, her head briefly greeting the night air, a hand is at her neck and wrenching her back. She’s thrown to the ground and though she has to blink against the shot of pain at the back of her head she scrambles onto two feet and launches at her attacker.

It’s not the noble, but a woman, dirty blond hair and sharp features like a hawk, brown eyes like blades and teeth bared. Clarke knows instantly she’s a warrior by the way she fights, knows she’s fought battles and won. When the warrior lands a hard strike at her nose and disorients her enough to slam her up against a wall, Clarke just breaking her hold in time to miss the dagger plunged for her head, Clarke knows she’s not a guard, not someone easy to fight against.

But Clarke knows how to fight. She had to, for the life she lived, the place and way she grew up. You don’t breathe in the air of the ruins, the slums, the mud roads of the poor where it’s common to greet murder and kidnapping to not learn how to escape. So she fights back, and though the warrior against her is clearly bred through skill, Clarke makes up for her lack in it for her ferocity. The way she is like a cornered animal, a knowledge so sure that this is it, if she didn’t get out, this is it.

And nearly, _nearly_ , does she do that. She manages to slam the warrior’s face into a dresser, drag her head along the surface and sending the clutter on top to the floor. She lets her free and lands a harsh kick to the warriors chest just as she spins around, and it’s as the warrior stumbles back that Clarke see’s her chance, her opportunity to dive for the window, forgetting whatever height and possible pain that would great her, when she sees it. She’s close, so close to going through, when she sees the warrior raise a hand and sees sparks spit between her fingers.

Clarke’s jaw can’t help but drop at the display of _magic_ in front of her, the flames that coil in her clawed hands. As far as she knew, she was the only one she’d ever known to hold magic. She had never met another with the ability. It makes her hesitate, pause when she shouldn’t, so just before she can jump through the window and to freedom, the warrior thrusts her hand forward and the ball of flames hits her square in the chest, lifting her up and slamming her into the wall, just inches from the smashed in window.

Stars blast in her vision and for a moment all she can do is blink, the world blurry and swaying. It’s in those moments that the rest of the warrior’s crew barge into the room, and Clarke has a few seconds of consciousness before the warrior is in front of her and snagging her collar, bringing her to her feet and shoving her against the wall. It knocks her head again and Clarke hisses at the pain.

And before she can do anything else, she gets one last glimpse of the warrior’s face, the harshness of it, before a wet cloth is smothering her mouth and her eyes are rolling into the back of her head.

-

PRESENT

 

She can only blink as she stares up at Heda, fucking _Heda_ , who casually leans in her throne, a dagger being lazily spun between her fingers. Clarke doesn’t remember much between what she thinks is last night and now. She knows the unconsciousness that greeted her once the warrior had overcome her, and then being roughed awake with that sack over her head, suddenly being dragged up through wherever she was.

But she knows where she is now.

She’s in Polis Tower.

_Fuck._

“She’s hurt,” is the first thing Heda says after a tense silence, no one seeming to dare speak before her. Clarke doesn’t blame them. She’s been in her presence for a total of five seconds and already she’s goddamn terrified. Then again, she’s probably facing death or lifetime imprisonment, so the fear can be warranted.

And even if she does feel that fear, the rapid beat of her heart, it doesn’t go lost on her how surprisingly beautiful the woman before her is. She can’t help but drink in her gaze, the tight leathers of her dark armour, the flow of her blood red sash from her pauldron, but most importantly her eyes – her _eyes_. They were staring down at her with such an intensity that makes her feel like she’s examining her very soul, and it’s infuriating the simultaneous terror and odd calmness that floods her.

She feels like she’s staring up into the eyes of a god.

And for once, she doesn’t get off her knees.

“She did not come quiet, Heda,” the guard, the warrior, mutters from beside her and Clarke is so lost in drowning in Heda’s gaze that she jumps at her voice. If she looks close enough, she swears there’s a small twitch at the corner of Heda’s lips.

Heda, thankfully, tears her stare off Clarke, and with only a small amount of shame does Clarke let her shoulders relax fractionally in relief. “It seems so.” She says, her voice as blank as her mask. It’s unnerving, Clarke thinks silently to herself, how completely unreadable Heda was. But her guard, the one built like a bear, isn’t quite so apt, and she sees the twinkle of mirth in his eyes, gone as fast as the wind changes. She watches how quickly they flick over to the warrior beside her, and she knows that he is focusing on the bruise blossoming on the warrior’s jaw.

She knows because her fist still ached from the hit she’d delivered.

“So, you are the fabled Wanheda.” Heda states and her drilling stare is back on her in full force. Clarke tells herself her throat isn’t dry.

She doesn’t reply.

Heda’s eyes narrow slightly at that. “Have you nothing to say?”

There’s a dangerous edge that enters her voice, but Clarke holds her ground. The shock is fading away and it’s a familiar anger that is building, one that’s been with her since she was born and has never smothered. She clenches her fists from where they remain bound behind her. The tension rises high in the room, she can feel it like a weight at her chest, but Clarke merely lifts her chin. If this is it, she’s not going down begging.

Heda stares at her for another few long painful moments before her eyes flick over to the warrior that had brought her here. “ _Onya,_ ” she orders, “ _Lid em in op._ ”

The warrior, Anya, roughly grabs her arm and pulls her to her feet. Clarke snatches herself out of her grip as fast as she can, and though she earns a death glare from Anya she easily returns it. They stare each other down as Anya slowly steps back, her jaw clenched tightly, and it’s obvious the message she’s trying to get across. If Clarke so much as _thinks_ of raising a hand against a Heda, she’ll find a knife in her throat.

Her eyes snap forward though when she sees Heda rise in the corner of her eye. Clarke’s back straightens impossibly more, and it’s only pride that keeps her feet planted as Heda slowly descends the dais, stopping just a few steps from her. Clarke meets Heda’s stare, and though she can feel her pulse in her hands, sweat sure to be leaking down the nape of neck, she stands tall.

“You are Wanheda,” Heda says, but it’s softer this time, a whisper. The change of tone throws her and she knows Heda does it on purpose. But it works, because the softness brings up a barrage of thoughts Clarke _really_ doesn’t want. Like what other situations would warrant the quietness, the gentle breath.

And Clarke knows this is it. There’s no saving herself now. So she grinds her teeth, lets her eyes flick between Heda’s green ones, her expression still blank. Yet there’s this spark in her eye that even Heda herself can’t seem to tame.

“I am.” Clarke mutters, and at her voice, lower and rougher than she intended, Heda raises a brow. There’s a victory that dances in her eyes that Clarke willfully ignores.

“I could have you living in the cells for all you’ve done.” Heda watches her with an odd closeness before tilting her head slightly. “Possibly even killed.”

Clarke clenches her jaw. She’s not afraid, she’s not, but still she can feel how her hands beg to shake. Even if Polis is neutral territory for any clan, Heda still rules it. She rules every clan, the only Heda able to bring the wrestling forces under one banner, one name. The Coalition. She is a terror to be reckoned with – there’s a reason Clarke always took effort to never cross her.

But just as she tilts her chin, readies herself for the axe to come, she’s instead met with Heda taking a step back, and her gaze, those eyes, the hardness that she’s so used to wavers slightly like a ripple in the water. “But, perhaps not.” Heda mutters and Clarke pretends her shoulders don’t sag.

It’s confusion that keeps her body tense. Suspicion. Because she _knows_ that look, the way the tension settles in the room. She’s seen it on herself in the mirror, whenever she prepares herself for a dangerous job, when the stakes are high. It’s the look right before you take a deep breath in attempt to ease the knot in your chest. It’s the heartbeat before she sheathes her blade, spreads her paint.

It’s pain.

“What is your name?” Heda asks, though it’s very much an order.

Clarke’s brow is still slightly creased from what she’d seen in Heda’s eyes, and she must mistake her silence of confusion for a refusal to speak, because her face easily becomes hard. Clarke manages to bring herself back before her throat is slit.

“Clarke,” she answers, because whatever is happening, it doesn’t feel like it’s about what time she’s going to die anymore. Right now it seems like honesty, to some degree, is her safest bet.

Clarke watches the tiniest easing of Heda’s shoulders at Clarke’s reply. “You are skilled Clarke,” she starts and it takes every ounce of will power Clarke has not to shiver at the way she says her name, the way it rolls so sharply and gorgeously off her tongue. “It has been years and yet no one has ever been able to discover you.”

Heda begins moving around her then, slow and precise steps. Clarke fights to keep her gaze forward and not show her discomfort at the way Heda circled her.

“They say you can steal anything from anyone, no matter who or what it is they want. That, yet, you only remain as an aid for the poor, a despiser of the rich.” Slowly Heda comes to a halt in front her again. Her eyes harden. “Are the rumours true? Is your touch like a breath of air?”

It’s matter of fact when Clarke answers her with a murmured “yes,” not a hint of smugness or cockiness in her voice. It’s even devoid of pride. Because the rumours are true, it’s just how she was. There’s nothing to brag, nothing to show. It is just simple fact. She even reckons, if the moment ever came, that she could have stolen something from Heda. It wouldn’t be easy, that there’s no doubt, but in the back of her head, she knows it is possible.

Heda raises her chin. “Then you have a choice.” Her hand comes up, a small dismissive gesture, but instantly nearly all of the guards file out of the room, save for the brute of a man still standing by her throne and Anya glaring at her from the side. Clarke feels her breath catch in her throat. This isn’t good. This isn’t good _at all_. Depriving the room of witnesses is exceedingly _not fucking good_.

And yet, Clarke keeps her gaze on Heda’s, remains locked in her eyes.

It’s an indescribable feeling that swirls in her gut as she does so.

“You can either accept your fate to the dungeons, or,” she pulls herself up then, somehow becoming even grander than she was before. She cocks a brow. “You can help me, and I will let you free.”

Clarke is so shell shocked she can only blink.

Heda doesn’t say anything, merely holds their continued stare, so Clarke lets herself chuckle disbelievingly, shock making her limbs feel numb. “I’m sorry, _what_? You want my _help_?”

She see’s Anya step forward with a growl in the corner of her eye and Clarke flinches, readying herself for the shove, but it never comes, as she sees Heda has raised her hand, halting Anya’s movements.

Heda’s eyes still haven’t moved off her.

“Yes. If you value your life and your future, then I suggest you think carefully on what I offer.”

Her voice is softer than she expected for such a barely veiled threat. Clarke has never been one to react well to authority, there’s a fire in her veins that’s landed her in more than enough trouble as she grew up, and maybe it’s the change in tone, maybe it’s the plain _contradiction_ , as Heda stands just steps before her. With her hard mask and her hard fists and her soft voice. Her whirlpool of eyes that Clarke easily finds herself drowning in, unintentionally.

It’s that thought that forces her back to the present.

But still it remains, and so, as her nails dig into her palms from behind her back, Clarke narrows her eyes at Heda.

“What is it you want?” she whispers and it’s odd how Heda seems to sag her shoulders and tense up at the same time. It’s odd, and _entirely_ much too fascinating.

“Something was taken from me,” Heda says, and Clarke feels the pressure at her chest push tighter, the tension raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Heda’s stare is even harder now, somehow, and it leaves her feeling like her very essence is being picked apart with Heda’s eyes alone. With great effort does Clarke fight off the urge to fidget or squirm. “I want you bring it back.”

Clarke blinks slowly. “You… you want me to steal something for you?” she breathes, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice.

“You will only talk when Heda addresses you,” Anya snarls at her and Clarke almost, _almost_ , bares her teeth at her in response. But perhaps that’s a tad too animal of her, and in the presence of Heda herself, it would probably be a show of bad sport. So Clarke lets her glare speak for her.

Heda seems to ignore Anya’s interruption. “It is not stealing when it was mine to begin with.” Heda mutters, and Clarke knows she treads shaky ground, her words needing to be weighed, carefully selected. It’s a game of politics that she’d really much rather stay out of, at least until the pulsing in her head passes. The knock around with Anya had left a small persistent headache that hasn’t yet gone away.

“Forgive me Heda but… if someone has stolen from you, why enlist…” Clarke swallows briefly, suddenly wondering why she’s arguing _against_ her own case, but her sentence is already started and it’s too late to turn back. “Why ask for my help when surely you have grounds to track them down your own?”

Heda stares at her before speaking again. “It is a complicated matter.” She explains, though it’s not really an explanation. If anything it’s an explanation to _avoid_ an explanation. “I cannot say more until you decide.”

Her curiosity can’t help but rear its head then, tugging at her wrists to urge her forward. Clarke knows her curious nature has fucked her over plenty times before, but, unsurprisingly, she never seems to learn, and it’s with an internal sigh does Clarke give in like she always does.

“If I am truly to surrender myself to you, then I wish to know what I am getting involved in. If you intend to set me up for some doomed heist guaranteed to kill me… then I’d much rather a quick death.”

Clarke is surprised when she sees Heda’s lips press together slightly, the only sign in her otherwise blank face that gives away a glimpse of emotion. Of something human. “I can assure you that I do not hold intent to kill you. Not if you give me your service.”

“And yet you won’t tell me what you want is.” Clarke counters, but a part of her already knows the game she’s playing. Because it’s obvious that Heda would be reluctant to hand out information of her weakness, of something going wrong. But she’s in such a corner of a position, she finds herself pushing Heda, even if she truly had any value for her life, she would do anything but. Yet Heda is nothing like she had expected the leader to be. Sure, she’s terrifying, clearly powerful and able to bend mountains with sheer force of will, but there’s something about her that makes Clarke pause. That makes her stare at her a little too close, with attention to every minute flicker of movement.

“You will know, if you agree. But first you will willingly give me a blood oath. Then you may work for your freedom.”

Clarke thinks it ridiculous how many times she’s being reduced to just _blinking_ in this conversation.

What in the actual fuck is happening?

“You want me to swear a blood oath.” Clarke can’t even fathom how many times this conversation has turned its head on her. First she thought she was going to die, then she thought she was going to suffer life imprisonment, then Heda needed her help and _then_ she’s being to told to make a fucking blood oath to goddamn Heda herself. To bind herself to a contract older than time itself. There’s no wiggle room in that, no loophole to squirm out of.

Well, not any _obvious_ loophole.

She is a criminal after all.

Heda nods at her, her stance still regal and hands clasped behind her back. Clarke doesn’t want to imagine what she looks like right now. She’s still in her dark leathers and there’s sure to be smudged paint around her eyes, the black mask now nothing to offer a sliver of intimidation or aid up against a person like Heda. But Clarke still holds her head high, her shoulders pushed back, because it’s practiced habit that allows her to draw herself bigger than she is. She knows there’s only one way out of this. If she’s lucky, maybe she can escape during whatever heist Heda needs her on. She can run off into the shadows and slip off the face of the earth.

But for that she needs to remain alive.

It’s only with a small amount of bile in her throat does she slowly step forward, ignoring the sting of metal as Anya unsheathes her sword, and falls to one knee. She doesn’t bow her head, as pride is a stubborn thing that stays propped under her chin, and her eyes still burn their defiance like they always do. But it’s clear, the sign she gives, as she willingly kneels before Heda, staring up into dark eyes that are far too enticing.

“ _Ai laik yun, Heda._ ”

Clarke knows the only way out is in.

-

She’s thrown quickly out of the room after that.

Clarke knows she was taken sometime late at night, and because of the sun leaking through the gaps in the stone windows as a guard marches her through, she realises it must now be morning, maybe even dipping into noon. She’s wholly expecting to be thrown into a blood-ridden cell, so it comes as a complete surprise when her guard stops short after a tedious amount of twist and turns, at a wooden door. She frowns even as the guard, while still keeping a death grip on her arm, uses his free hand to jam a key into the lock and pushes the door open. Clarke notices there’s no handle on the inside.

When she doesn’t move immediately the guard huffs and shoves her forward so she’s stumbling into the room, and it’s only with a gruff, “if you are seen anywhere outside of this room you will be killed without pause,” does he glare at her and shut the door, leaving her with just herself. Clarke stands in a sort of numb state for a few moments in an attempt to absorb what was going on. Because, there’s probably a genuine chance she’s passed out somewhere from one of Raven’s seriously dodgy drinks and this is all some demented dream.

Even if this entire thing could be a dream she still searches the room, her blue eyes squinting as she takes in its contents. It’s the bare essentials, the room mostly taken up by the bed with a few furs, a rug of a bear’s hide on the floor. There’s also an absurd amount of candles that hang from the ceiling. Her sight snags on the open window though and she rushes for it.

But she pulls to an abrupt halt when she sees the metal bars hanging just in front. Her heart is racing when she inches forward and dares a glance downwards, her breath catching when she sees just how far up she was, how tiny the world is below her, humanity and its achievements brought down to nothing but ants.

She’s not escaping here.

There’s quite literally nothing else but the bed and rug Clarke realises, so as she scours the room for any type of weapon, it’s with a frustrated growl that she knows there’s nothing. There’s no point. It’s a fruitless endeavor – for now. She just has to be patient. If she can do patience, she can do escape.

It’s only pride that keeps her from screaming her throat raw.

Eventually she lets herself sit on the bed and _fuck_ is the thing comfortable. Her own bed at home is probably half this one’s size, and sure, it’s _nice_ , it keeps her warm and lets her pass the hours, but furs like these are truly divine and it’s strange when she’s suddenly hit with the thought if Heda’s bed is like this. But it wouldn’t be, it would be better, wouldn’t it? She doesn’t know if it’s possible to top this but when it comes to Heda she’s sure it could.

She wonders what being in Heda’s bed would be like.

Clarke jerks back like the thought was a hit at her side. She scowls deeply at herself and growls, as if she can tame her mind like it’s a misbehaving animal. Considering past experience though, it probably is. But the call of the bed is like a siren’s, and even if she’s been unconscious for a while there’s tiredness in her bones from the sleepless nights she’s been finding herself in recently, running job after job after job. She would blame others if the fault isn’t mostly her own. Because she’s running from her problems, a habit she’s never quite been able to overcome, she’s running from the emotions that always come this time of year.

“Breathe,” Clarke whispers to herself, closing her eyes and forcing her breath. She lets her head fall into her hands, having thankfully been untied. It’s infuriating how every time it comes it always wrecks her. It is better though, it’s less intense, the hollow ache in her chest, the urge to crumble to the ground like an avalanche and take everything with her.

Her father has been dead for four years now.

And it’s with a certain tiredness, one that runs far past physical, that Clarke pulls herself up and crawls into the bed. She doesn’t sleep under the furs but on top and it’s not long before her eyes are falling shut. She’s always slept easier during the day as her profession keeps her awake at night. But her sleep is restless like it always is, she tosses and she turns, but even her subconscious seems to know that for where she is now, she must remain quiet.

So when she screams for the help of the Gods in her dreams, she doesn’t make a sound in reality.

The Gods don’t answer anyway.

-

She’s awake when the door opens.

It’s the big guard, the one like a giant that makes his way through. He ducks under the doorway and Clarke can’t help but narrow her sight on the way he walks, how he shifts. It’s subconscious the urge to analyse people around her, to the find the weaknesses, the things she can use. She notices how tense he is in her presence, how his jaw to constantly be clenched. But it’s different to the way Anya does it Clarke thinks. There’s _something_ different. Not softer though, not sharper. Just _different_.

Maybe it’s because when she stares at him he stares back.

It reminds her of her father.

With that thought she feels her entire body coil with tension and the stare off between them seems to finish. She knows there’s no point to resist right now, the time isn’t here yet, so when he comes and snags her elbow she merely grits her teeth and lets him drag her forward. He doesn’t go the same way as the guard from before Clarke realises, but before she can think on this he’s suddenly shouldering his way through arching doors and she’s back in the throne room.

It only holds Heda and Anya who are currently in the midst of an argument it seems like. Heda is standing still with her hands clasped behind her back, the picture of calm as Anya is opposite and paces back and forth, muttering and throwing up her arms. But as they get closer Clarke sees how no matter how calm Heda is trying to act, she can see her hands are in tight fists behind her back.

“She is a _thief_ ,” Anya snarls, seeming to not notice their arrival in how consumed in her anger she is. Clarke thinks Heda noticed though, because she saw how her shoulders had risen higher, tighter, the second they came in. “We cannot trust her, _you_ cannot trust her, she will stab you in the back the moment she is able.”

“She is our best option.” Heda sighs, and from the way she does Clarke thinks this is not the first time this has been said.

Anya spins on her heel to face her with a glare but it seems she finally notices her. Clarke is powerless to suppress her smirk.

“Talking about me?” she tempts and earns dark glares from everybody in the room.

Anya storms her way toward her and Clarke’s smile slips off her face, tension rising in her body and making her subconsciously draw her foot back. But Anya doesn’t go for her. She stops just a breath away, drawing her dagger, and when she brings it to her throat Clarke only lifts her chin. She feels the cool metal prick at neck, hears Heda’s warning shout, but she stays still, staring Anya dead in the eye.

And Clarke only raises a brow.

It’s obvious that it angers Anya even further, and for a second it actually seems like she’s going to give in. Clarke feels a sharp prick of pain as Anya pushes just a little forward, but then Heda is suddenly there and snarling at her and Anya is shoved back with surprising force. Clarke blinks slowly when she realises Heda stands as a buffer between her and Anya.

“ _Nou na, Onya._ ” Heda mutters, and it’s truly terrifying how calm her voice is. “She is not to be harmed.”

It looks like Anya almost moves to defy her, her jaw twitching, but in the end, like everyone does, she falls to Heda. “ _Sha Heda._ ” Anya forces out with clenched teeth.

Heda seems to let the tension rise in the following silence, her stare continuing to bore into Anya. It’s only once many painful seconds pass does she slowly turn back to face her and Clarke becomes the object of Heda’s intense stare. Clarke swallows.

“You are to make the blood oath. Then we shall talk.” She orders, and she unsheathes a dagger at her side as she says this, her sight briefly flicking over to the guard that still has an iron grip on Clarke’s arm. “ _Gostos, breik em au_.”

Gustus’ grip hesitates for just a second before complying with Heda’s order and releasing her. Clarke keeps her gaze steady on Heda, and it’s odd how without Gustus’ hold she feels _less_ safe. At least with the guard she knows how to react. But with Heda? Someone who holds her life in her hands? _That’s_ a completely different, and far more terrifying matter. Heda flicks her hand and Gustus steps back so it’s just the two of them left in this space. The lines around her eyes harden.

“You will swear to not betray me and to follow whatever I say without question, you submit yourself in service to me, to not relay to anyone what you will undergo in your service to me.” As she states the oath she grabs one of Clarke’s hands and pulls it up, with an odd amount of gentleness, and never breaking their shared eye contact she presses the blade into her open hand, carefully dragging the dagger. Clarke bites back her wince at the sharp slice of pain, thankfully staying quiet as she feels the blood began to well from the cut.

“I swear it.” Clarke mutters and it doesn’t matter how hard she tries, there’s still bitterness in her voice, a burning anger. Her eyes finally break from Heda’s when she cuts her own hand and Clarke watches as black blood leaks from the wound. She sucks in a sharp breath at the sight. The stories are true then. Heda truly has black blood.

Heda’s voice drops, harder than before, like her tongue is a knife itself. “Swear on a loved one’s grave.”

They’re just about to clasp bloodied hands when Heda says this, and Clarke pauses instinctually.

Heda eyes are still locked on hers.

“I haven’t lost loved ones.” Clarke lies, and normally she fancies herself a pretty damn good liar, but Heda somehow sees right through her and suddenly joins their grip of cut palms. She squeezes so tight that it hurts and Clarke can’t hide her wince this time.

“Do not lie to me.” She growls, and Clarke’s hearts starts thudding relentlessly in response. “ _Swear it_.”

Clarke holds out for as long as she can. But she sees Gustus step closer in the corner of her eye, sees his large hand wrap around the hilt of his sword.

And Clarke knows she’s doomed.

“I swear on my father’s grave.” She whispers, so only Heda can hear. “I am yours.”

Heda holds her stare for a moment longer, and Clarke must do a poor job of masking her pain, hiding the tremble in her voice as she says it, utters the words. She knows Heda hears it though. How she trips on his name. She’s still hurting, she thinks she always will, and the dull ache in her chest grows tenfold at saying it out loud, that he’s _dead_ , he’s _gone_ , he’s never coming back.

It seems to convince her.

Heda releases her and takes a step back. Anya is instantly coming forward and offering a cloth to wipe at the blood, and Heda takes it carefully, her eyes, as seems to be in growing habit, never moving off of Clarke.

Clarke slowly drops her gaze to the cut on her palm, and she frowns a little at the sight of the mixed blood, the red blurring with the ink black. She stares at it, and she lets the gravity of what she’s just done truly sink in, lets it settle like rocks in her lungs and clog up her airways. She’s just bound herself in service to Heda. She’s a thief, a fucking _thief_ , and now she’s Heda’s to do as she wishes with.

Clarke fists her bleeding hand and brings it to her side.

“So, what is it that was stolen then?” Clarke asks, her voice much steadier compared to what she feels like inside. There’s a turmoil in her heart she refuses to address.

Heda releases a small sigh before answering. “A boy.”

Clarke stares at her. “…A boy?” It hits Clarke suddenly what the look she had seen before was, when she’d been brought to her. That pain she’d seen. It’s for this boy, she realises; she’s worried for him, cares for him. He’s clearly been taken as a way to hurt her.

But Heda doesn’t have a son.

Right?

  
“Yes.” Heda says, sheathing her dagger after wiping it clean. She steps forward suddenly and Clarke prepares for some type of threat or insult or even attack, but instead, much to her surprise, Heda merely grabs her hand once more and lifts it up. Her eyes finally leave Clarke’s own and focus on Clarke’s sliced hand. She uses the rest of the cloth Anya had given her, bandage Clarke now realises, and with a strange amount of care gently wraps it around her hand. “He has been taken by the Azgeda Queen Nia as a way to gain control over me. You asked why I did not pursue this myself. Azgeda are part of my people, I cannot openly accuse her of such crimes or I shall risk war.”

Clarke can only dumbly stare as Heda continues to gently tend to her wound.

“I need you to find him. She will never suspect you, as you are… not entirely my own. To her knowledge.” Slowly, she finishes bandaging her, and steps back. “You will not draw attention when you retrieve him for me.”

“I’m a thief, not a kidnapper,” Clarke tries, but Heda just glares at her.

“You will do as I say.”

Clarke bites off her retort so hard she’s sure her tongue is bleeding. “Right.” She takes a deep breath to try and calm her anger, reminds herself that insulting Heda will only get her killed. “Where was he taken?”

“I do not know.” It seems to pain Heda to say that. “All I know is that he was outside, training when he was taken. It was in broad daylight but, somehow he was never seen, not by anyone.”

Clarke frowns a little at the information. “They could have used the tunnels under the city,” she murmurs, thinking out loud.

“The tunnels were closed off generations ago.” Anya mutters, narrowing her eyes at her. Clarke meets Anya’s glare if only so she can smirk at her.

“For some.”

“They run for kilometres Heda,” Gustus steps in, “it would take too long to search them.”

Clarke turns her sight back onto Heda, and even if she knows she shouldn’t, she _shouldn’t_ be helping her, not even if she’s made an oath to her, she finds her resolve cracking, ever so slightly, when she sees the pain that Heda can’t hide in her eyes. Heda meets her stare, but the longer it holds, the more Clarke thinks this isn’t Heda staring at her. It’s not Heda, it’s not the leader, it’s not the god. It’s the human underneath, the name that only such a select few can breath, as most can only utter her title. Because it’s a girl that stares at her now.

It’s a human being.

“I know how to find them.” Clarke mutters, and she knows she shouldn’t feel warmth when she see’s it, the _hope_ that flickers in Heda’s eyes like fires in the dark. Clarke clenches her jaw.

Her heart has always bled too easy.

-

“This is foolish, Clarke,” Heda hisses for what Clarke is sure to be the fiftieth time. Clarke sighs, again, but she doesn’t stop their fast pace, the uneven cobblestones slightly wet under her feet. It means she has to concentrate a little harder on how to balance her steps.

“You wanted a thief’s help, Heda,” Clarke says, not looking to the girl beside her. “So that is what you’ll get.”

Suddenly a hand is snatching her arm and hauling her to a stop, but Clarke lets her shoulders relax when she sees it’s Heda. “This is far too risky Clarke,” Heda whispers, her jaded green eyes flicking between Clarke’s blue ones. “I will look too suspicious.”

Frustration makes Clarke grind her teeth. “You won’t. Where we’re going, about half the place, maybe even more will look like you. No one will bat an eye.” Clarke assures, and though there’s still tightness in Heda’s shoulders, she releases her grip on her arm.

Clarke lets her gaze travel over Heda once more to double check anyway that she actually _will_ get looked over. She can understand Heda’s unease, as with the all black clothes she wears and hooded cloak, she looks entirely guilty of something, but that’s exactly what she needs to look like. The only skin shown on her was the slit for her eyes. No one should be able to identify her. The only worry would be if she talks and someone identifies her that way. But the rest will be fine, Clarke is sure, so she simply tears her gaze off her and keeps walking.

Polis is a big city. It’s big enough that it’s divided into sectors, spanning out like a circle. Polis Tower sits in the centre, where Heda resides, and further out you push the less reputable it becomes, the more the stone becomes dirt and the brick become wood. It’s also the only place where it’s considered as completely neutral ground. It’s a sort of clan in of itself in a way, in the diversity it shares and prides on, houses and stalls and shops of every one of the clans’ colours.

It’s dark now, night blackening the skies, but Clarke still catches a flash of blue and black in the corner of her eye and for a second the corner of her lips twitch upwards as she sees the symbol of her own people. The flag hangs over a roof of a small stall, fluttering slightly in the gentle breeze. She lets her gaze trace over the insignia, the triangle like shape and the interlocked curved lines.

“You are Skaikru?” Heda asks, seeming to notice Clarke’s staring. With a small sigh Clarke pulls her eyes off the flag and onto Heda. There’s no bite in her tone, no scathing that she’s used to, especially from one’s of the Trikru. Which she knows Heda is, was, before she became Heda.

“I am.” Clarke answers, and she waits for it, the scowl to form, the noise of disgust.

Yet Heda, if anything, looks curious. “Some say your people’s love for the sky is because you ride dragons.”

Clarke is so thrown by what Heda says she laughs. “We all share the ground and yet _we_ are called to be born from the skies simply because we know how to take advantage of them.” Skaikru were known for their affinity to fight from the skies than the ground in battles. Whenever people have tried to invade, they always seem to get taken down arrows raining from the skies. For some reason, Clarke finds herself feeling mischievous with the great Heda. “And anyway, you can’t tame a dragon. Stubborn buggers they are.”

Heda stares at her.

Clarke bites back her smile.

“You do not have dragons.” Heda states, but from the way it sounds it could also be a question.

Clarke shrugs.

“You cannot possibly have dragons.” Heda repeats, and Clarke simply shrugs again.

Clarke can’t stop her smile this time. It’s wide and full of teeth. “It’s a magical world Heda. I hear Azgeda has Dire Wolves.” She throws in a wink for good measure before focusing back in front of her, but she doesn’t need to stare into Heda’s eyes to know they’re narrowed.

“You cannot possibly have dragons,” Heda mutters under her breath, but Clarke doesn’t say anything when she hears. Instead she lets her smile widen and continues their pace.

They walk for another half hour until there are suddenly more people than before, more strollers and casual goers and passed out drunks leaning on buildings. Clarke moves a little closer to Heda without thinking as they weave their way through and she can practically _feel_ Heda’s hackles rise. Clarke leads Heda into a specific alleyway, a small barely there white mark of a circle with a horizontal line cut through the middle drawn into the stone. Clarke goes first and Heda follows, and it’s with slight relief does Clarke see the iron manhole cover on the ground, the same symbol from before etched in centre of it.

“Come on,” Clarke says, crouching down and digging her fingers into the familiar grooves, hooking them and pulling it off with a grunt. She pushes it to the side and peaks down, seeing no one. There’s a ladder that just sits below the lip of the hole. She turns her head to the side to see Heda with her usual blank mask, but she thinks there’s a bit of surprise in those eyes, maybe even a bit of curious delight. “The ladder’s sturdy, it’ll hold you,” Clarke assures, and with that she stands up and turns around, slipping her boots into the rungs of the ladder and making her way down.

It doesn’t go too far down till she’s skipping the last few rungs and jumping, landing with a quiet thud. It’s only a few seconds later that Clarke is moving to the side and Heda is landing in her place. It had been relatively silent in the streets, but down in the tunnel there’s a barrage of sounds that echo through. Despite the hard curve of stone that shapes the tunnel, the atmosphere is warm, as there are torches attached to both sides and lighting up the narrow space with gentle oranges.

There’s a door that sits not too far at the end and Clarke doesn’t hesitate to stride towards it, not needing to check behind her to know that Heda is following her. The tap of their boots clicks against the stone below them, bouncing off the walls and funneling into her ears, but it’s a gentle sound, a familiar sound, and as they near the door and hear the incoherent combination of both deep and soft voices, Clarke feels the knot in her chest ease slightly.

When they reach the door Clarke lifts her hand to push on the handle, but Heda’s hand is suddenly on her wrist. Her grip isn’t tight, so while Clarke feels herself tense up, it’s not in preparation for a fight.

“You are sure no one will know?” Heda questions.

Clarke sighs, something she’s finding to become increasingly common. “If you’re so worried about being found out why have you come with me?”

Heda glares at her, but Clarke takes it because she already knows the answer to the question before she said it. She may have sworn a blood oath to her, but she is still a stranger, a thief, a wildcard. There’s no trust that she won’t just bolt the second she’s able. Which Clarke finds a little ironic, as it _is_ also technically her plan.

But Clarke also thinks Heda comes because this boy, whoever he is, is special to her. And that she can’t just simply sit back and let him be taken, be hurt, she has to know herself, do _it_ herself. So she can be assured. It’s a little too human for Clarke, because she knows that if she were in Heda’s position, she would be likely to do the same.

It’s making everything too complicated.

“We’ll find answers here I promise. Just let me do the talking, it’ll all be fine.” Clarke swears, and though Heda still seems like a tightly strung rope being stretched to its limits, she nods, and her hand leaves where it had still been gripping Clarke’s wrist.

Clarke ignores the small part of her that misses that contact.

Instead she pushes open the door and heads in, feeling her heart settle at the familiar greeting at her senses as they enter the bar. It reeks of alcohol and sweat from all the bodies crammed into it. Yet like the tunnel the atmosphere is warm, or at least for her, as she takes in the many trinkets and bits and bobs that hang in nets in the walls and ceiling, torches flickering from the sides. But it is home, in a way, because as she weaves her way through, her hand dimly reaching out behind her in signal for Heda to follow, she sees one of the few remains of her family.

The barkeep’s head pops up at Clarke’s approach, and at spotting her she smiles so wide Clarke’s sure it hurts.

“Well, look at what the cat dragged in,” the barkeep grins, Clarke sitting herself at a stool by the chipped oak bar that has really seen better days.

“It’s good to know your manners haven’t change Raven,” Clarke says, shaking her head with a smile. Raven merely keeps her grin, but Clarke isn’t blind to how it’s wider than usual, more relieved. She knows it’s because she was meant to be back last night. Her and Raven had often been partners in their thievery, especially in the early days, and she had told her of the seemingly simple job to grab the necklace.

Which clearly had _not_ gone to plan.

Clarke lets her eyes quickly scan Raven’s form to check for any injuries or such. There’s the usual limp in her step, courtesy of a heist gone wrong, the same clear bronze skin and lean figure, the same scent of smoke that can never be wrung out of her clothes. Thankfully, she seems uninjured. Raven must notice Clarke’s observing because she rolls her eyes at her.

“I’m perfectly fine Clarke, quit being a mama hen,” she admonishes, and Clarke desperately tries to ignore how she feels Heda stiffen from beside her, mostly likely in effort to hide her amusement. Under the bar Clarke’s hand shoots out and hits Heda’s leg. She doesn’t care if she’s going to get a reprimand for it. Her pride can’t take it. “And anyway, where were you last night? Your food went cold.”

Clarke hears the worry, the slight hurt that slips into her tone at her words and Clarke feels her heart crumble. For a moment she forgets that Heda is by her side and focuses on Raven, her best friend, her sister really, reaching over the bar and gently squeezing her arm.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke starts sincerely, “My… night didn’t go to plan.”

Raven frowns at her. “Is that why it looks like someone smashed in your nose?”

Clarke glares at her and leans back, briefly flicking her gaze over to Heda by her side, who seems to just be watching the interaction with curiosity. Raven seems to suddenly notice Heda there too, because Clarke sees that vulnerable side of Raven disappear, that brash bravado replacing it.

“And who’s this?”

“A friend.” Clarke says before Heda can say anything.

Raven knows that ‘friend’ usually means ‘client’, so she simply smirks at her and bends down, picking up two glasses and placing them in front of them. “I see. What can I get you two then?”

Clarke blows a breath out of her mouth, running a hand through her hair and casually leaning back in the motion, allowing her to subtly to scan the bar for anyone nearby who could be eaves dropping. She sees no one, and when her eyes come back and lock onto Raven, it’s with silent communication and years of knowing each other that Raven understands why she’s here. Raven glances over behind her before she pulls a rag that’s thrown over her shoulder and leans forward to wipe down the bar.

Clarke knows that Heda catches on, how Raven has moved closer, started an activity where she can get away with leaning in.

Clarke leans in too. “I’m looking for someone. A boy. He wouldn’t be alone but with a group.” She feels Heda tense up from beside her, and in instinct does she reach out a subtle hand and lightly rest her fingers on Heda’s wrist. Miraculously, it seems to work, and she feels Heda’s tension ease slightly. “Has there been movement in the tunnels?”

Raven furrows her brow, and while she’s staring at the bar top as she wipes it down, Clarke knows it’s directed at her. “Depends,” she says. “You know when they moved through?”

Heda had told her before they came here. “Two days ago.” Clarke answers, and she watches Raven frown harder.

Those brown eyes flick up at her, once, but it’s enough for Clarke to know that she’s going to be having a long talk with her later.

“A boy was taken through the tunnels up near the north side. He wasn’t alone either, had some big guys with him.”

“Reliable?” Clarke checks, narrowing her eyes. Raven blinks at her, her hand with the cloth stilling, and Clarke knows it’s because she’s surprised at how quick Clarke is cutting to the chase. Raven’s frown furrows further and Clarke knows she’s in for a _really_ long talk.

Raven’s gaze briefly jumps over to Heda before returning to Clarke. “Yeah. It’s from Murphy. He was doing… business when he heard people coming, hid in a corner and saw a bunch of guys drag along a kid.” Her voice lowers slightly. “Kid was unconscious, slung over like a sack.”

“Was he hurt?” Clarke asks, because she knows Heda will if she doesn’t. Instead of just touching Heda’s wrists she grips it, firmly, in silent offer of reassurance.

Raven shrugs at her, finally leaning back and throwing the rag back over her shoulder. “Don’t know. Murphy’s more focused on getting out alive then keeping details. He knows he was knocked out though, not dead. Had blond hair too.”

Heda had told her that the boy has blond hair, so there’s no doubt, or very little at least, that this is who they’re looking for. Clarke lets out a relieved breath, and Heda must too, because suddenly they both seem to remember that Clarke is holding her wrist and she abruptly lets go.

“Okay, thank you Raven. You’ve been helpful.” Clarke says, standing up and watching as Heda does the same. Raven watches her oddly and Clarke tries to hide how uncomfortable it makes her. She looks over to Heda, finding she is already staring at her. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Heda narrows her eyes.

Clarke answers the unspoken question. “Just need to relieve myself, something I’m sure I’ll manage on my own.”

It doesn’t look like Heda likes letting her off on her own _at all_ , but maybe she realises the information that Clarke has just gotten her, the hope she has just brought, because all she does is nod and sits back down. Clarke gives her a grateful nod back before slipping away. She offers a couple smiles as she weaves her way through, regulars tipping their heads at her and some even calling out her name and clapping her on the shoulder. It makes her feel more at ease, Clarke finds, and even if to most this shady bar made mostly for criminals should bring nothing but apprehension, for her it’s the opposite.

For her it’s home.

She doesn’t actually need to relive herself. She simply needs to breathe. It’s easy to ignore her inner turmoil when she has something to focus on, tasks to do and get lost in. But it’s starting to come back now, just realising what the _hell_ she’s gotten herself into. This clusterfuck of a situation that really shouldn’t have happened. Clarke hides herself in a small empty hallway, letting her back fall into the uneven stone wall. She can do this. Sure, she’s probably bound to the worse person in the entire universe to be in service to, but there is an upside. Because it’s Heda Clarke knows she’s much more likely to stay by her word. If she can pull this off, then Heda will let her go.

“If only you could see me now Dad,” Clarke whispers, and she chuckles bitterly, wondering if he’s staring down at her from the clouds and watching as everything unfolds around her, laughing at her misfortune.

All too soon she’s pulling herself back to together, sucking in a shuddering breath and forcing her back straight. It’s with a quiet mutter to herself to just get it over with does she make her way back to Heda so they can go and search the tunnels, except as she merges her way through, again acknowledging some smiles and nods, she suddenly sees that Raven has offered Heda a drink. Clarke sees Heda’s hand rise as if to reach for it and without thinking Clarke runs the last few steps and lunges for the glass.

She snatches the drink before Heda’s even raised her hand and instantly picks it up and tips it over, pouring the liquid on the wooded floor.

“What the hell Clarke?” Raven snaps, but Clarke just glares at her, and it must be more terrifying than she intended because Raven’s jaw snaps shut.

“No. You are not pulling your shit. Not with her.” Clarke throws Raven one last warning glare, though in the end it softens, as she picks herself up and readies to leave. “Thank you Raven,” she murmurs quietly. “For everything.”

Raven gives her nod and Clarke takes her leave, but her steps halt when she sees Heda isn’t immediately following her. She turns around, frowning when she sees Heda is just standing there, staring at Clarke in some type of shock. It’s hard to read when she only has her eyes to go off, but still Clarke can see the crinkle, the confusion.

Clarke huffs at her. “Follow me, we have to move. The more time we waste the further they get.”

Heda lingers a few moments longer, something unreadable in her gaze, before she eventually caves and follows on after her.

Together they leave what Clarke considers home.

Clarke wonders if she’ll ever get the chance to return.

-

The tunnels are cold.

Clarke doesn’t know if it’s the cool breeze that makes it so or if it’s just the wet air itself. It makes her glad that she’s still in her dark leathers that cover most of her skin. Winter’s coming soon, and so while normally she’d only wear it during jobs, it’s helpful now in protection against the chill as her and Heda travel through the underground. While she frequents the tunnels, it’s not too often, so her body is tense as they walk. Heda seems to notice because Clarke sees how she trails a little closer to her than she did when at the bar.

The tunnels are designed for drainage as well, parallel thin concrete paths on either side of a low flow of water. Their steps echo loud as they make way through and the sounds make Clarke even tenser. She’s always been more prone for quiet; found far more comfort in silence, and the clicks of their boots makes her uneasy. There’s not much light down here, but there’s enough that when she looks to the side to check on Heda again, she can make out her features.

She’s taken off her hood now. The mask at her mouth is gone too, and it gives Clarke such a strange comfort, easing of her heart, to be able to see her face once more. To be able to track the slightest twitch of movement of her facial muscles, her expressions. Upon seeing that Heda is indeed fine and not looking like she’s going to kill her at any moment, Clarke nods to herself and faces towards the front, focusing back on her task on searching for any clues or signs that the boy had been taken through here.

They’ve been searching the tunnels for nearly an hour now in pretty much complete silence, so it makes Clarke jump when Heda’s voice suddenly pops up.

“Why did you spill the barkeep’s drink?” she asks, and at it Clarke stops walking. Heda stops too, watching Clarke carefully, and she answers with a soft sigh.

“Raven is protective.”

Heda frowns. “I do not understand.”

Clarke briefly glances down at her boots before looking back up. “She… saw you as a threat. She’s good at reading people, she was suspicious the moment we walked in.” Clarke sighs again. “When she’s loyal to you, you can trust her with your life, but when you’re a threat, especially to the one’s she loves… she can get protective. Sometimes she drugs her drinks.”

Heda’s eyes blow wide. “But she’s a barkeep,” she breathes, seemingly in disbelief. “Surely she can’t-“

“It’s Raven.” Clarke cuts off. She shrugs. “And, as I said, it’s only ever in self-defence. Or when she thinks someone is going to hurt me.”

Her words seem to placate Heda somehow at least, and Clarke feels a bit of her tension ease, as she had been slightly worried that Heda would plan on hurting Raven for what she had tried. There’s an awkward beat of silence where they remain staring at each other, and Clarke would let it go and keep walking, keep searching, but she sees how Heda seems to be struggling with something. She can see it in how tight her face is, how her jaw twitches to the side.

Finally, Heda seems to find her words.

“I would not have drunk what she offered. Not when it would distract me.”

A part of Clarke already knows this. “I know.”

Heda looks at her strangely then, in a way that Clarke has never seen from her. Like the very laws of the universe have changed and she is the cause. “If you knew, then why did you spill it?”

Clarkes stares at her, and she notices how unlike any of their other interactions, this one is softer. Normally there are no questions with Heda, only orders, there is no option to refuse an answer. But it’s the way that Heda looks at her now, the softness in her eyes, that lets Clarke knows that she has opening, if she wishes, to back out of the conversation.

It’s very strange.

But it also makes Clarke feel more at ease.

“I couldn’t risk it.” Clarke answers quietly. She watches the internal struggle play on Heda’s face. That blank mask she’s used to as it cracks and splinters and crumbles.

“It would have aided you if you did. If I had taken it, you could have used the opportunity to escape.” Heda says, and Clarke narrows her eyes at her, not being able to see where this is going, but Heda seems calmer now that she’s said it. “It is noble that you didn’t.” She states and she seems to see Clarke’s growing suspicion, preparation for a retort or a remark, because she sighs at her. But it’s oddly gentle. “You may call me Lexa, if you wish.”

Clarke blinks at the offer. Her jaw opens, then closes. It had been more instinct than anything to spare Heda from Raven’s wrath, and though she’d like to play it off that it was done without thinking, she’d be lying. Because it’s true that, yes, it was _mostly_ without thought, but it is also a little because it’s a boy that they’re going after. A boy who was taken from her, an innocent child.

And even Clarke’s dark heart can’t take that on her conscience.

This is repayment, Clarke knows, being able to call Heda by her name. She can’t offer her freedom, not yet, and she can’t offer her money, but Clarke thinks that this is far greater of those.

So Clarke stares at her, blinks again, before she speaks. “We need to keep moving,” she says, and just as she’s about to turn back around, she bites her lip and nods at her. “Let’s go, Lexa.”

Clarke enjoys the taste of her name far too much in her mouth.

-

It’s not too longer after their talk that they find something.

It’s Clarke who sees the strange stain. She frowns, pausing and grabbing Lexa’s arm, puling her to a stop. She doesn’t say anything, merely crouches down with her and points at to what she had seen. Clarke knows it’s something, it’s not possible to be here by coincidence, but she can’t quite tell what it is. She can tell it’s a stain, something of a liquid. But it’s black.

Clarke knows it’s important when Lexa stiffens beside her.

Lexa’s hand reaches out and hesitantly trails her finger over the black stain in the stone, and Clarke watches as it shakes slightly.

“What is it?” Clarke asks, switching her sight off the stain and onto Lexa. Lexa’s eyes don’t leave the stone and Clarke swallows the desert in her throat when she sees just how much tension is suddenly running through Lexa like wild fire. It’s clear, in the way the vein pushes out for her neck, her jaw clenched tight enough to break. It’s clear that Lexa is absolutely _furious_.

“Blood.” Lexa mutters, her voice low and dangerous. Slowly, much too slowly, she brings her gaze to meet Clarke’s. “It’s his blood.”

“He’s…” Clarke does her best not to falter under Lexa’s stare, the sheer intensity of it. “He’s like you then.”

Lexa’s stare lingers a few moments longer before she nods.

Clarke tears her sight off her and back on the bloodstain, carefully running her fingers over it. It’s dry, meaning the boy is long gone, but it’s a sign in the right direction. With a small sigh Clarke pulls herself to her feet. Lexa mimics her. Clarke looks around the area surrounding them, the gentle flow of water and the cold stone, squinting in hopes of finding another stain. She walks forward and feels a smile curve her lips at seeing another streak, this one less of a puddle like the last one, but more a line. Like someone had drawn it deliberately with their fingers.

Clarke briefly crouches by the new streak, standing up when Lexa appears by her side.

“Your boy is smart,” Clarke grins, and she thinks for a second that Lexa is going to smile too, but though the ends of her lips twitch, she manages to suppress the desire.

Clarke shakes her head at her and follows the trail.

It starts to move off the floor and onto the walls, and the longer they follow it the smaller and lighter the bloodstains become. They follow them through the many twist and turns of the tunnels, through the moments it takes them deeper, Clarke having to dig her heels harder into the stone to keep her balance, and when it almost leads them in circles at times, having to grind her teeth in effort to hide her frustration. Clarke can feel Lexa’s tension like it’s a physical thing, sitting on her back and breathing down her neck. It makes her movement’s twitchy, makes her jump at the slightest of sounds. She knows it’s in worry for this boy, and Clarke finds it odd when she feels the sudden need to comfort her.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t try though.

The tunnels are lighter here, more higher up with the occasional cracks in the arching stone above. Lexa still walks beside her, jaw set and stride purposeful, so Clarke figures this a wonderful time to start conversation. She can understand Lexa’s fear for this boy, but they need to keep a level head if they want this to go well. And since Lexa clearly isn’t going to let her off on her own it’s up to her to ease out her new partner in crime.

“Is it true Trikru have werewolves?” Clarke asks, and she knows she’s succeeded when Lexa’s step falter slightly. Her head turns to her with a frown.

“I’m sorry?”

“Werewolves,” Clarke repeats, and it’s only now that she realises how dark Lexa’s eyes are in lighting like this. It’s surprisingly entrancing. “My friend, she left for the Trikru when she was of age. She tells me you have werewolves. Is she lying?”

Lexa blinks at her and Clarke finds it far too adorable. “We do,” Lexa says, still looking very confused by this turn of conversation. But Clarke also notices how her jaw is less tight, her shoulder less tense. “They hunt only at night. If you find yourself facing a werewolf alone, you are sure to die.”

Clarke can’t help but grin broadly at her. “No way. Seriously?”

Lexa nods at her.

Clarke feels her excitement mount up inside of her. “Have you ever fought one?”

“Once. There are territories given to the packs, stretches of land dedicated for them during the full moons to lesson the chances of killings. A year after my ascension to Heda, I was walking, but I hadn’t noticed how close I was trailing to the borders,” Clarke sees Lexa smile a little at her past self then, and in response Clarke smiles a little too. “This werewolf jumped from the trees. I was too far to get to help in time, too far for someone to hear. I had no choice but to fight it in hopes I could either injure it and escape or buy myself enough time for aid to come.”

“But you said if you ever face a werewolf alone you’re dead.”

Clarke thinks she’s dreaming when she sees Lexa smirk. “I am Heda. It is different.”

Clarke shakes her head at her. “So, did you kill it?”

“I managed a strike at its neck. It gave me enough time to run.” Lexa’s eyes shine then. “I still have the scar from where its claw struck my back.”

Clarke laughs at her, but it’s full of warmth and disbelief and she doesn’t seem to notice how Lexa’s smirk turns into a smile at the sound of it. “That’s insane,” Clarke chuckles, and when she looks to her again she finds Lexa watching her with that odd look again, the one she can’t place. Clarke’s laughing slowly dies off, and for a few precious seconds they just stare at each other, getting lost in each other’s gazes with an ease that shouldn’t possible.

But then the stone under her feet suddenly hits dirt, and Clarke realises they’ve walked out of the tunnels. She watches Lexa’s expression shutter to a close, how that spark of _something_ unnamable in her eyes is snuffed out and is instead replaced with the usual walls, the same blank mask that guards every characteristic that could call her human.

Clarke pretends it doesn’t hurt.

Instead she looks up and sees the moon in the middle of the sky, and since apparently the universe has been listening in to their conversation, she sees it’s full. Clarke would have laughed but she knows she cannot waste anymore time so she brings her gaze back down and glances behind her at the last streak of blood before the tunnel bleeds out into the trees before them. It’s a forest and the air is even colder and Clarke thinks that they’re heading further north, and so when she checks the lip of the tunnel and then the ground before them, sees the black specks on a flat stone in the direction north, Clarke feels her stomach sink.

Clarke crouches by the rock, slowly letting her fingers graze the stain.

They’re heading north.

To Azgeda.

At least it confirms that Nia is indeed behind the kidnapping. Still, it brings complications. She hasn’t delved into much thieving in Azgeda. She has done _some_ , but those have always been big jobs and high clients. She doesn’t have near as many contacts in the north. If the boy is being kept there, it will be more difficult than first thought to bring him back. Not to mention winter is nearing. The weather will only grow more dangerous.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, something suspicious in her tone.

Clarke ignores her, still focusing on the stain in the rock.

They may be easier to track though. There’s snow in the north, it will help in some ways. Hinder in others. She’s never been in a snowstorm but she’s heard of them, the horror stories of being caught in one, avalanches of thunderous snow pouring down from mountains and swallowing villages whole.

“ _Clarke.”_ Lexa urges again.

Clarke rocks back onto her heels, her brow furrowed in her thought. There’s also the danger of the man who likes to hide in the north ever since their spat years ago. He had been more criminal than thief, more for beatings and blood and murder. They had fought over territory in Polis, or more _she_ had forced him out when she saw the crimes he had been getting up to in what she was starting to consider home. There’s something she doesn’t like that sits in her stomach at the thought of him. How the boy had been taken through the tunnels that only a few know of. How quickly it was done. How they knew the exact route of where to go.

Clarke feels her stomach clench.

No, it can’t be that-

Lexa suddenly grips her arm in an iron grip and roughly pulls her to her feet. She lets her go the second she’s up but before Clarke can even ask her what the hell she thinks she’s doing she abruptly realises _why_ Lexa had done so. Clarke stills as she watches the shadowed figures slowly emerge from the trees, swords at their sides and feral grins on their lips.

“Shit,” Clarke breathes. Her hand instinctively snaps to her side for her knives, but she suddenly remembers how she’d been stripped of her weapons.

Oh _fuck_.

“I take it you do not know these men.” Lexa mutters, unsheathing her sword with a metallic whine. Her gaze doesn’t move off the advancing men.

Clarke swallows thickly, her eyes flicking between the people approaching them. There are five of them, and she recognises the furs they wear, the dark colours of black and blood red. Her heart stumbles in her chest because she knows exactly whose these people are.

“Mercenaries,” Clarke whispers, feeling Lexa shift into a defensive position beside her. “Bandits. Quick, give me one of your daggers.”

Lexa gaze briefly flicks over to her before focusing back on the bandits.

Clarke almost screams at her. “Are you fucking kidding me Lexa? I’m not going to kill you, but if you don’t give me a way to defend myself, then we’re _both_ going to die.” She thinks she’s getting somewhere when she sees Lexa’s jaw twitch. “Give me a weapon.”

“Clarke…” Lexa warns, but Clarke only rolls her eyes.

“I swore a blood oath Lexa. I won’t kill you.”

The bandits are closing in now and fear is quick to set itself in Clarke’s veins. Lexa forces a harsh breath from her nose, but Clarke knows she’s won when her free hand reaches to her side and throws her dagger at her without looking at her. Clarke catches it easy and gives herself a few seconds to adjust herself to its weight.

The nearest one stops a few metres from them, the rest pausing and spreading out behind him. He’s big, broad shoulders and boulders for fists with tan skin. His slick black ponytail reveals the many scars on his face, one spanning the entire length of his left cheek and running over his lip. Instantly his gaze zeros in on Clarke, and Clarke knows it’s because he recognises the leathers she wears, the coldness in her eye.

He knows she’s Wanheda.

He would, after all, considering she has fought with him before.

“Well, look what we have here. You’re a ways out from your turf Wanhda.” The man grins, and unlike before, where Clarke was desperate to pry a smile out of conversation, his one is slimy and makes her skin crawl.

“What are you doing, Sova?” Clarke snaps, her grip going white knuckled on Lexa’s dagger.

Sova’s eyes gleam. “A job. I’m sure you’d understand.”

“What job?” Clarke mutters, but she thinks she knows already. Considering how she feels Lexa pull herself up higher from beside her she assumes Lexa does too.

Sova flicks a scarred calloused hand and the bandits spread behind him draw their swords. “To kill anyone who walks out that tunnel.”

“Why?” Clarke demands.

But Sova doesn’t confirm her suspicions. Instead he just grins that same unearthly grin, and the moment it shows crooked teeth Clarke knows they’re done talking. Lexa seems to realise at the same time too, because one moment they’re all at a stand still, eyeing each other down, then Clarke blinks and it’s a clash of metal and steel. Clarke knows she has no hope attacking head on, not with a dagger as a weapon so she’s quick to doge the lunge from Sova.

His size is intimidating and Clarke knows that one hit could probably send her flying but it also means he’s slower, allowing her to duck and weave easier. He snarls in frustration when his strike misses her by an inch for the sixth time and before Clarke can even smirk at him a body is suddenly tackling her to the ground. She hits it hard, but she doesn’t waist time to buck and break out from her captor’s hold. Clarke rolls to the side and scrambles up to her feet, rushing at the bandit and kicking him in the face as he takes a second too long to get himself back up.

She dives at the ground to avoid Sova’s attack, snatching her dagger that she’d dropped and lunging at the bandit who had just gained his bearings back from the hard kick. She plunges the blade into his neck and rips it out in time to miss Sova’s go at her again.

Clarke staggers up to her feet, but she’s not fast enough when Sova’s previously predictable attacks suddenly change, and in a blur of movement all the air is being knocked from her lungs and she’s being shoved up against a tree. Sova’s sword instantly goes for her throat but Clarke’s dagger shoots up just in time, her free hand coming up too, gripping the sword and pushing it back before it can slit her. Blood is quick to leak from her hand and it _burns_ with the pain of the sharp metal slicing her skin, but she has no choice if she’s to push it back.

Sova’s face is inches from her own, and Clarke bares her teeth at him.

“I’ve wanted to see you dead for a long time Wanheda,” he growls.

“And you’ll be waiting a while longer,” Clarke breathes, and with a snarl she suddenly shoves forward and it’s enough to force him back enough for her to let go of his sword and lurch back. He roars at her before charging at her again with more vigour than before and she struggles to match his pace. She’s a thief, not a warrior, and more than once does she find herself mentally cursing the Gods for putting her in this position.

She miscalculates a strike at her side and Sova’s sword slices her hand with the dagger, making it fall to the dirt.

Clarke is breathing hard as she slowly inches back as Sova stalks toward her. Her blood leaks down his sword and his eyes are manic in their shine, a crazed flame that looks just one breath away from burning down entire civilisations. She’s too focused on the sword pointed at her neck as Sova advances that she trips over the rock she’d been examining before, falling to her back on the ground. Immediately she’s pushing herself up but she halts at the sudden blade tip pressing into the base of throat.

Clarke swallows and doesn’t move.

“Not so mighty now are you?” Sova mocks, and for a whole second, Clarke feels the earth slow. Feels everything in such clear detail, the sting in her palms, the dirt under her fingers, the tang of blood and metal the air, the sound of fighting-

Hold on.

Clarke frowns when she realises that there _isn’t_ the sound of any fighting, only silence, and Sova must realise this too, because just as his own brow furrows and he briefly checks behind him it’s not a heartbeat a later a sword is suddenly driven through his chest. It’s just as quickly pulled out, and Clarke watches as Sova sways, blood trickling down his lip and hands clutching uselessly at the bleeding wound. His eyes catch hers just before he collapses to the ground.

Clarke finds she can’t breathe when she slowly brings her gaze up to her saviour.

Lexa stands above her like an angel of death.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, and Clarke is still so caught up in the adrenaline rush and near death experience she can only stare at her.

It only seems to worry Lexa further so Clarke watches numbly as she sheathes her bloodied sword and crouches down in front of her, her eyes flicking over her form to visually check for injuries. At finding nothing life threatening Clarke watches her relax, but almost as fast is she tensing up all over again, and her hand shoots out and grab Clarke’s own, pulling it towards her.

“Your hand,” she says, and Clarke, finally, seems to find her voice again.

She blinks as she forces herself to tear her eyes off Lexa and onto her sliced hand. It’s not the same one that she had sliced for Lexa’s blood oath. Clarke doesn’t know if she’s grateful.

“It’s fine.” Clarke snaps, snatching her hand out of Lexa’s grip. She doesn’t trust the warmth the contact gives her. Instead she scrambles up to her feet and takes a few steps back, puts some much needed distance between them. Lexa looks at her oddly when she does that. Clarke averts her gaze and heads over to Sova’s body. There’s something she needs to check. She pretty much already knows her assumption is correct, but still she needs to make sure.

She kneels down by his limp body, and with only a slight grimace does she push his head to the side and examine his neck.

She sees the tattoo she’s looking for.

“Curse the Gods,” Clarke hisses, and when she stands up again she snarls and kicks at the dirt. “ _Fuck_.”

“Clarke?” Clarke turns around at her name, and her anger softens at Lexa’s clear confusion. And maybe that confusion runs a little more past her reaction to the mark on Sova’s neck. “What’s wrong?”

Clarke sighs. “I think I know who took your boy.”

“Nia did.”

Clarke shakes her head. She lets her gaze briefly scan the trees around her and it suddenly hits her that Lexa had slain the bandits without problem. She had been too focused in her fight with Sova to properly notice Lexa’s fighting but she thinks that her skills is something akin to if death was given human form.

“Perhaps, but she didn’t use her own people. She’s hired the use of someone else.”

Lexa takes a step towards her and Clarke tries not to stiffen from it. “Who?”

“Pike.” Clarke mutters.

-

The last time Clarke saw Pike was two years ago.

It didn’t go well.

It seemed to be more pride than anything that finally forced him to leave, though Clarke likes to think it’s also that he had finally realised of the threat she posed. That he _finally_ realised the hell she could make rain if he ever fell foolish enough to truly cross her, to truly to do something to gather her attention; her ire. It’s perhaps ironic, that the thing that had factored into him pulling his network and forces from Polis, retreating into the north when Skaikru wouldn’t have him.

It’s ironic just how fucking furious she is for him now.

It’s true that they’re all criminals, she’s a thief after all, but there are certain lines, certain rules that you just don’t break. She’s done some dark things in her life that she holds no pride for, but even among thieves there’s honour. And if Pike has truly been the one to take this boy, a _child_ – and she’s not blind to the blood they had tracked – if he’s kidnapped a kid, hurt him…

You don’t get children involved.

Never.

She’s going to tear him apart.

She knows where to go. She’s kept track of him, ever since she left. It doesn’t matter if the edges of exhaustion are blurring the boundaries of her vision she’s _far_ too angry to let herself rest. She’s finding him. Now. She’s finding him and she’s going to make sure he understands just _what_ code he’s broken, what line he should never, _never_ , have been foolish enough to cross. She doesn’t care if he’s sided with Nia. She doesn’t give a damn for his exploits.

He got children involved.

They’re trekking through the forest now, and the further they push north the more the cold becomes biting and like the air is made of sharp teeth that nips at her skin. Her fury is enough to keep her warm, she stokes the fire within her with thoughts of her last encounter with Pike, of standing in those exact tunnels her and Lexa had searched through. Reminds herself of how the two of them had stood, their people not with them in that moment. In that moment it was just leader with leader.

A truce.

She remembers how they’d stared at each other in the shadows of the tunnels. The silence, only disturbed by the quiet trickling of the water next to them.

“You’re not welcome here,” Clarke had warned, and she knows now, the look that had been in his eyes. In the moment she hadn’t been able to read him. But she knows now.

She knows his rage.

“You don’t own this land Clarke.” He’d muttered to her. “This is Polis. Every man for himself.”

She had stepped closer then, and she had worn her full regalia, the face paint and mask and dark leathers and all. “You’ll find that I do. You know this turf war is gathering too much attention. Heda will soon know, and even _you_ I’m sure don’t want to initiate her wrath.”

Clarke had known she’d won when Pike said nothing.

“You leave now, take your scum with you, and I’ll turn a blind eye.” She’ll never forget the way his shoulders had dropped then. Pike’s a man built of arrogance, but in that moment, he was nothing. And Clarke had made sure to remind him, throwing out her hand and feeling the rush of warmth through her arm. His back was thrown into the tunnel wall beside him, invisible forces keeping him pinned, even as he bucked and writhed, struggled to break free of the sudden wind holding him down.

Clarke slowly walked around him, edged close enough till she was just a breath away from his face.

“I will only show mercy once.” With the words she had taken one of her knives and grabbed one of his arms that was pinned against the wall with her magic. Without breaking her stare she had flipped his hand over, so the back was facing up, and then, using the sharpened tip of her blade she had lightly carved her mark into the skin of it. The mark of Wanheda.

It was so he’d never forget. A warning for the future, that in that moment he was free, but was never, _never_ , to spite her again.

And yet.

They haven’t stopped moving for hours now. Clarke knows that Lexa’s noticed her fury, because it seems even Heda herself is reluctant to interact with her when she’s this mad, this burning to the brim like a volcano about to explode and decimate every and anything that dares to cross its path. Lexa follows her, silent as always, she follows her without question when the dirt becomes harder, more frozen than before, when there’s less and less leaves in the trees and the previous canopies that block the stars above become nothing but pathetic strings.

Clarke ignores the tiredness that tries to sink itself into her bones. She tries to shake it off, determined to get to Pike’s fort by sunrise so she can get this over with as fast as possible. This isn’t even about her oath to Lexa anymore. This is about resurging an invisible war that strangled the streets of Polis with none of the citizens knowing. Clarke can admit that she’s always had trouble with taming her anger. It tends to be a wild thing, like a lion that’s just escaped from its caged and hell bent on destroying all that had dared to restrain it.

But her tiredness must start to make its presence a little too known, the slight trip in her step, dragging of her feet, because just as they continue their march through the forests and they pass through a small clearing, suddenly she notices the usually steady presence of Lexa by her side isn’t there anymore. Clarke stops and turns, looking behind her to find Lexa, for some reason, wandering around the clearing with a small crease in her brow.

“Lexa, what are you doing?” Clarke asks, frowning slightly as she watches Lexa nod to herself after performing a circle around the clearing.

Lexa looks to her confused, but she seems more confused that _Clarke_ is confused. “Making sure we would be safe here.” She answers, like Clarke’s the one that’s being odd.

“…Why?”

Lexa’s confusion shifts into exasperation. “We need to rest. This should be suitable enough to last until dawn.”

Even in the dark, the only light the moon above; Clarke knows Lexa sees her glare. “No, we need to keep moving. We can make it to Pike _by_ dawn if we keep going.”

“You need rest, Clarke,” Lexa sighs, and Clarke thinks it entirely unfair that Lexa breathes her name like that. Because it is _much_ too hard to hold onto her anger when Lexa’s voice just makes her want to unravel into her arms.

Clarke’s glare intensifies. “No, I don’t. What I need is to _move_.”

But Lexa isn’t having any of it. She stands her ground, her back straightens and she crosses her arms. It’s giving Clarke flashbacks to the scolding’s she’d get from her mother when she caught her sneaking out at night. “You can’t do anything if you are exhausted. You will rest. We will continue at first light.” Lexa orders, and Clarke knows it is _very_ much an order, because there’s nothing but the mask of Heda on Lexa’s face right now.

She almost defies her. She can feel it, how her muscles tense in preparation, her teeth grinding together. It’s instinctual as she prepares herself for the verbal spar, which, considering it’s Heda, will mostly likely end in physical too, and Clarke doesn’t care if she’ll probably get her ass handed to her-

“Do you know why I chose you Clarke?” Lexa mutters, her features setting into such a penetrating stare Clarke loses her train of thought. She blames her tiredness.

Not that she’s tired.

Still, the question is unexpected. Clarke, slowly, brings her arms, which she hadn’t noticed have crossed over her chest, to her sides. “You needed a thief.” Clarke answers. “Someone you have no connection with.”

Lexa steps closer to her then, that drilling stare still on her, and it takes all of Clarke’s willpower not to step back. “You are Wanheda. This boy that you are to bring back to me, if he dies we will have war. The kidnapping alone is cause enough.” Clarke swallows heavily when Lexa advances with each word, her features darkening, brewing, rising up like an oncoming storm. “You are no ordinary thief. And you _will_ bring me him. I am not _asking_ you this. I am ordering. Nia does not play games, if she finds you, finds out, she will slit your throat and those of all you love.”

She’s only a few paces away now, her advancing only stopping when their faces are inches apart.

“If you fail, war will fall. I need you to be ready. And if you are exhausted, if you can’t act as your highest and best self, then you are useless and I will kill you myself.” Lexa leans just the slightest bit closer. Clarke can count her eyelashes. “We will rest.” Lexa mutters. “And you will not question me again.”

Clarke holds Lexa’s stare even if every part of her wants to do anything but. Clarke doesn’t know how Lexa does it, makes it seem like she’s holding a knife against her throat with just her words alone, her _eyes_ alone. It’s with great resistance does she swallow, does she force her breathing that started to spiral to regain its control.

Clarke nods at her.

Lexa clenches her jaw, and though Clarke expects her to finally snap, instead, she nods too, and she moves back. “I will wake you in a few hours time. Then you will take watch.” Lexa only gives her one last glance before pulling away and wandering off into the clearing, presumably to find a safe spot to keep watch from.

Clarke pretends she doesn’t release a breath of relief.

She waits until her heart isn’t thundering anymore before walking over near a fallen tree. Her steps are only a little shaky, so Clarke takes that a victory, considering how lesser men would probably be on the ground curled up into a sobbing ball with the amount of fear that’s running through her system right now. She knows it’s on her, for forgetting, how ever so lightly, just _who_ she is with. Clarke finds it a bit funny and sad of how she had been travelling with Heda herself, that she’d forgotten she isn’t _actually_ travelling with her.

She’s keeping an eye on her.

She’s playing guard dog.

And yet, even if she _does_ feel that fear, that terror of igniting Heda’s spirit that lurks in Lexa’s being, even as she lies down on the slightly damp grass and onto her side, using her hands as a pillow. Even if she _knows_ that she shouldn’t be feeling it, she does, she really does, the tendrils of it still swirl in her gut. From when Lexa had gotten close. When her eyes had been so vibrant and bright and _alive_.

Because Clarke’s knows that even if of all the reasons not to, she had still felt those wisps of desire. How her heart had pounded not just because she was afraid. Or _supposed_ to be afraid.

Because Clarke knows her eyes had fallen to Lexa’s lips.

-

It’s dipping into noon now.

Her back is sore from sleeping on the hard ground, but it’s with much reluctance does she bitterly admit that perhaps the rest was actually needed. Because her steps are a little surer now, her emotions are more manageable, less volatile and ready to burn nations to the ground on a whim. It’s downright painful to be walking beside Lexa now and to know that she had been right. And _she_ had been wrong.

Lexa’s isn’t smug, per se, but Clarke isn’t blind to the way sometimes her sight lingers a moment too long on her.

The small, barely-there smile she gets.

Clarke would glare at her but she knows Lexa doesn’t deserve it.

She’s far more focused on other things in the current moment anyway. There’s been a growing tension the further they walked, and Clarke feels so tightly strung now it’s maddening, just how much tension is coiling in her muscles, in her fists and her chest and her back. She knows she’s straight as rod, and she knows that Lexa isn’t stupid as to the cause. Because she can see how Lexa’s been growing in tension too.

They’re here.

The pair of them slow their steps as they ease to a stop at the sight of the gate of Pike’s fort. It’s not nearly as big as Lexa’s Tower, but it’s definitely not small, the stone walls that sit in front of her, cracked and aged from centuries of use. There’s a metal gate before the clearing into the arching entryway of the fort, and her and Lexa linger in the last crop of trees, savouring the last lines of cover.

Clarke takes a deep breath, willing her blood to calm its simmering. “You know of Pike, right?” she asks, and Lexa’s gaze flicks from the fort in front of them to Clarke.

Clarke knows the answer before Lexa’s says anything. It’s clear in the way she grinds her teeth. “Yes. He was responsible for many… crimes in Polis.” Her anger seems to falter slightly then into a small frown. “Until he disappeared.”

Clarke nods. She needs to set some rules before they go on. It’s a delicate game she’s playing waltzing into Pike’s turf with their history, but he’s their only solid lead on where to find the boy. Plus, Pike had gone and broken one of the few rules of the code.

He’s got another thing coming if he thinks there’s no consequence for that.

“Pike and I… have some history. I’m the reason he left Polis. He still holds resentment for it, did a massive on his ego, so if you hear shouting, then you have to run.”

Lexa tilts her head slightly at her. Clarke finds it far too endearing. “You speak like you are going in alone.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at her. “Because I am.” She says slowly.

Lexa closes her eyes and sighs.

Clarke really should have been expecting this.

They argue in low whispers for a few minutes before Clarke throws up her arms with a huff, just reigning in the urge to throw Lexa into a tree. “Fine,” she hisses, because Lexa apparently is nearly as stubborn as her, and she knows they’ll probably keep arguing till the end of days if one of them doesn’t concede. And considering Lexa still very much holds her life in her hands, she’s willing to give Lexa this one. “Fine. But you better know that everyone in there,” she raises an arm, pointing to the fort in front of them, “is a criminal. They are thieves, not warriors. You don’t hold power over them. They are my people. Not yours.”

Though Lexa does glare at her, she doesn’t dispute her.

It’s good enough, Clarke thinks. She sighs before continuing. “If we’re doing this, I need you to promise me you’ll follow whatever I say. Just for this,” she rushes to add, when she sees Heda briefly flicker in Lexa’s eyes, “just for this,” Clarke repeats, quieter, softer, and the change in tone seems to work. She watches her Lexa return. “You are Heda. There will be some foolish enough to think they can use this chance to kill you. Just follow me, and stay quiet.”

“Clarke, I’m not a-“

“A fool, I know, but it is _incredibly_ stupid for you to come in with me, but since you are, you need to do as I say.”

Lexa stares at her for a short while and Clarke can quite literally see her mulling over her options, weighing what to do, what to follow. It’s with great relief that she watches Lexa nod. Clarke can’t help but smile in her relief, and it’s a little wider than she intended, but when sees that the corner of Lexa’s lip turn up a bit a too, she thinks it all right. Clarke’s about to pull herself away and prepare the walk into the lion’s den when Lexa’s hand is suddenly shooting out and grabbing her wrist.

“Wait,” she says, and Clarke just stares at her curiously as she reaches to her side and unsheathes her dagger. Lexa hesitates, for just a second, before releasing a slow breath and handing it to her. “Keep it. For protection.”

Clarke blinks dumbly for a few moments before managing to come back to herself and carefully easing the offered dagger into her grip. She tries it in one of the sheaths at her side and finds it fits fine. It’s a sign of trust, a big one considering their predicament, and Clarke finds it a little odd when her first thought _isn’t_ how she can use it in a way to escape, if maybe she’d dare to injure or incapacitate Heda so she can split.

Her first thought, instead, is the blooming warmth in her chest at knowing Lexa trusts her.

She suddenly averts her gaze, not being able to take Lexa’s intense stare anymore. There’s something dangerous brewing in her gut at the sight of it, something she refuses to acknowledge. In her periphery she can see Lexa’s slight crease of her brows, but she doesn’t care, and instead she merely starts pushing out of the trees and into the clearing where the gate sits. To the Tower behind it.

It’s not long that she feels Lexa’s presence reappear at her side, and Clarke willfully ignores the knot that eases in her chest because of it.

She ignores it all.

There are two guards that stand near the metal gate, casually leaning against the stone behind them as they idly chat with each other. They wear the same uniform as the bandits her and Lexa had fought, leathers of black and red, and Clarke fights the urge to kill them both at the sight of it. Instead, she lets herself enjoy as the guards spot her, both of them, and suddenly they’re straightening like trees and any nonchalance or warmth is sucked right out of the air.

It’s a cold day anyway.

Clarke smiles as she stops in front of them. It’s definitely not a smile you’d wish to be the subject of though, because she sees how they shift uneasy in the face of it. Clarke finds herself thankful when Lexa stops a little behind her, and, as asked of before, doesn’t say a thing, letting Clarke lead. Clarke easily does, and while it _is_ because she knows these people and how they think much better than Heda does, it’s also because that anger that she’s been burying all morning she can _finally_ let free.

“Hello boys.” She grins. “I’m here for Pike.”

She watches the fear the splays across both their faces at her voice, at the way she grins at them like a wolf that’s seconds from closing in on its prey.

She’s been waiting for this for far too long.

-

It doesn’t surprise Clarke how grand Pike has made his base to be.

They’re led through into the fort by one of the guards, a boy probably no older than sixteen summers, his tunic a little too big for him. Clarke drifts closer to Lexa the moment they’re striding through the stone archway into the fort, and the cold that they’ve gotten so used to is suddenly pushed out by the heat of the many fires inside. It opens up immediately into a hall, a worn rugged carpet stripped down the centre that her and Lexa walk across as the boy bandit leads them to Pike.

Clarke analyses the place around her, and it gives her a bit of comfort to find Lexa doing the same, albeit with more subtly. Clarke has no care for subtly, not for this, so she doesn’t bother hiding the way she eyes the bandits that live on either side of the hall as they move through. Most of them are huddled around fire pits, sitting in clumps together and rubbing their hands over the precious warmth from the flames. At first there’s a lot of noise, of shouting and laughing and talking, but as her and Lexa are led through they all stop, the smiles all turn into a scowls, jaws drop and eyes blow wide.

It’s not every day you see Wanheda and Heda walk side by side.

She takes note of any of the gazes that linger a moment too long though, the ones that don’t have shock or awe but a dangerous anger, the calm ones. Those she eyes very carefully, memorising their positions, the type of weaponry they keep on their person. What she’d need to do to disarm them. She knows some will be foolish enough to try and kill her, if they’re suicidal enough maybe even Lexa, so Clarke keeps herself on high alert, keeping detail of every inch of the people around her.

They exit the main hall and are led through a couple more passages. There are less people the further they push through. Clarke feels the hairs rise on the back of her neck when the boy suddenly stops behind a particularly large iron door. It’s obvious this is it, this is where Pike resides, and Clarke forces herself to take in a calming breath. As much as she’d _so_ very much like it to tear him limb from limb, it was his men that were guarding the tunnel, that were there stationed to kill any who followed the bloodstains. He’s the one that took the boy. He’s the one that will tell them where the boy’s being kept.

So.

She can’t kill him yet, unfortunately.

The boy bandit pushes open the large heavy doors, and they really must be heavy, because the boy struggles with the weight as he leans all his strength against it. It’s a little comical, and it brings a small amused smile to her lips as she watches the scrawny boy huff loudly and ram against the door, yelping when it actually works and he nearly ends up sprawled on the floor when it’s swinging open. The smile is quick to fall as she strides through and takes note of her new surroundings.

It’s oddly reminiscent to when she had first seen Lexa’s throne room, Clarke realises. Like Lexa’s throne room, it’s more a hall than anything, with guards lining the sides and a throne at the front. Though Clarke is oddly proud to admit that Pike’s throne is nothing on Lexa’s. It’s clear that he’s made it in an attempt to be intimidating, it’s made mostly of bone and wrapped in black leather, and Clarke honestly doesn’t know if the bones are human or animal. But though in _theory_ that should be objectively more terrifying than twisted gnarled branches as a throne, Pike’s really is nothing compared to Lexa’s.

Her thoughts are brought back as Pike, who had been lounging in his throne clearly bored, perks up in his seat as her and Lexa come through. Clarke watches the twisted grin that spreads on his lips, eyes excitedly bounding between her and Lexa, seemingly unable to decide which leader to stick on. Clarke bitterly thinks that it’s probably Pike’s dream come true, to have Heda and Wanheda brought right to his doorstep.

Easier to kill.

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” Pike smirks, and Clarke leaves a bit of distance between them as she eyes him coolly. In the corner of her eye she sees the two bandits that stand on either side of Pike straighten impossible so, and their gaze zeros on her and to every flicker of movement.

It’s a wonderful boost to Clarke’s ego to know they’re scared.

“Pike, long time no see.” Clarke replies, her tone dry.

Pike’s grin only widens.

He’s looks the same since the last time she saw him. Albeit maybe a little less on his high horse, a little less the look of a man who truly believes even the Gods themselves would kneel at his feet. Sure, he still has the same dark skin and even darker eyes, same scars that litter his knuckles and arms, same black leather tunic and blood red strip that runs diagonal from his shoulder to his waist. It’s very much the same egotistical, infuriating, smug son of a bitch she’s come to know and love, but the slight wariness in his eyes, the subtle tightness in his shoulders as he regards her.

 _That’s_ new.

Clearly, he still vividly remembers the last time Clarke called for his presence.

Clarke’s smirk is subtle and brief.

“And I see Wanheda has not come alone,” his sight shifts over to Lexa, his eyes flicking up and down as he takes her in. Seeing him scrutinise Lexa so obviously makes her surprisingly uncomfortable, so it’s not long before she’s stepping forward, and if she steps a little in front of Lexa as she does so, Lexa doesn’t say anything.

Clarke grinds her teeth. She’s forgotten just how much she hates Pike’s voice. “I am not here to reminisce of old times Pike,” Clarke says, and it takes all of her willpower to resist the urge to spit the words at him. He raises a brow at her. “I’m here because of the boy.”

“The boy?” Pike asks, but his ‘confusion’ is given away by the knowing glint in his eye.

“Don’t play with me Pike.” Clarke snaps, and perhaps it’s harsher than she intended because nearly all of the guards in the room stiffen, clench tight to their weapons.

Lexa doesn’t say anything, but Clarke does feel her hand brush slightly with hers behind her back. _Relax,_ the touch says, and the gesture is more needed than Clarke originally thought. At the contact Clarke forces a shuddering breath, willing herself to keep her calm. She feels some of the tension that’s been coiling in her shoulders since she’s stepped foot in here release slightly, and in response Lexa steps out a bit, seemingly assured that Clarke will be fine for now.

It’s an oddly sweet gesture and Clarke forces herself not to think on it.

“Cut the shit Pike,” Clarke says, but it’s with considerable less force, less like a panther just _begging_ for the opportunity to pounce. “Your people were seen smuggling a kid out of Polis. You think no one noticed?”

They don’t actually know if he’s truly the one behind it, but he seems to buy her bluff, because he simply shrugs at her. “Well, considering the boy’s a nightblood, it’s a given it was noticed. But the fact that it was noticed by _you_ ,” and he raises his finger then, points right at her and Clarke only just holds back the impulse to gut him right there. Pike’s lips tug into a knowing grin. “I never thought I’d ever be in luck to see the day you get leashed Clarke. And by _Heda_?” he laughs at her, and it’s a cold sound, it’s a disturbing one that has her soul stiffening, “the irony is truly something of the ages.”

Her rage is like lava seething under her skin. It’s only the knowledge that Heda will have her head if she kills Pike without getting their information that keeps her still. Her hands do curl into fists though, her nails biting into her bandaged palms. It hurts because of the slices at her skin but she doesn’t care, and if anything the pain is welcomed, as it gives her something to focus on. Her vision is getting dangerously close to a red haze.

So it’s pretty mind blowing when she _doesn’t_ rise to the bait like she often does with him and instead pushes a sharp breath through her nose. “Rich, coming from you, considering you’re now eating from the Azgeda Queen’s lap.” She mutters.

The insult works, thankfully, as Pike’s grin slips from his face and his entire demeanor seems to harden. It’s a domino effect. All the guards in the room shift and harden too.

Pike’s stare bores into her, but Clarke takes it in spades. Another day in another life, perhaps she would once feel an ounce intimidated by it, but she’s recently had the experience of being subject to Heda’s stares, and even worse, Lexa’s. Clarke’s sure there will never be another who makes her feel quite so exposed than when she’s staring into Lexa’s eyes.

And that _really_ isn’t what she should be focusing on right now.

“You’ve always made yourself as a lone wolf Pike, but selling yourself to a queen?” Clarke smiles at him, and it’s so sharp it’s a wonder it doesn’t slice into his throat. “Even _I_ thought you’d be better than that.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait twice, sadly. But there’s nothing of that feigned nonchalance now. Every line in his body is rigid, full of tension. At the start it was their usual game of pointless needling, attempts of trying to get under each other’s skin, but it’s similar to that time in the tunnel when she’d told him to leave Polis, the way he stares at her now. Him knowing just how much of a threat she was. Is.

Pike lifts his chin. “The boy is not here.” He states, and Clarke feels Lexa stiffen from behind her. He holds Clarke’s stare before shrugging, a hint of that usual infuriating smug smile on his lips. “Nor is he with the Queen.”

Well, at least he’s confirming it.

Sometimes she hates when she’s right.

“Where is he then?” Clarke asks, but she already knows her question pointless. And by the slow smile that widens on Pike’s face, she thinks he knows it pointless too.

“I do not know.”

“You damn well do.” Clarke snaps, and she clenches her fists tighter.

He shrugs again. “Perhaps. But, you know how it goes Clarke. You _are_ a thief after all. You know information doesn’t come for free.”

She can’t dispute that, because, as painful as it is to admit, he’s right. She’s paid many a pretty penny to find out building layouts and noble’s schedules. But Clarke already knows what Pike really and truly wants, and even if Lexa will kill her for it, she will never offer it to Pike even if it meant that she wouldn’t be able to get the location of the boy out of him.

“I will not give you Polis.” Clarke mutters, with no preamble, because her and him both already know that Clarke’s the one that’s in need here. It’s a negation.

She feels Lexa’s eyes snap onto her, probably how she talks of Polis like _she_ owns it, when Lexa is the one that actually does. Legally, anyway. On the illegal side, it’s definitely Clarke that holds the strings.

For a second Clarke considers how incredibly powerful that makes Heda now that she’s under her thumb.

Clarke is relieved that Pike simply nods at her, expecting it. “I know.” His words are bitter and resentful, but they’re good enough, and Clarke takes them. Her relief is drained from her when his eyes shine. Because Pike happy is _never_ a good thing. “Since it seems Heda has you on a leash, that means you’re close. I’ll make you a deal. Either _you_ ,” and his dark eyes drill into Clarke’s then, “swear your service to me, or Heda here,” his sight flicks over to her “agrees to forever turn a blind towards me, and I’ll tell you where he is.”

It’s too much. Clarke lurches forward with a snarl. “How _dare_ you,” she growls low, and she knows that Lexa shifts from behind her, instinctively moves forward with her to grab her arm to pull her back. But the movement seems to be reason enough for one of the guards that stands by Pike’s side to jump into action. Clarke had noticed in the corner of her eye of his antsiness, how he was constantly shifting and unclenching and clenching his hands on his spear. Suddenly though the guard is snatching a knife at his side and hurling it directly at her. Except the dagger zips past her ear, and Clarke realises it’s heading for _Lexa_ , not her.

And there’s this second, where she feels the earth slow, feels time itself halt to a stop. Because there’s a choice that’s suddenly forced onto her shoulders as she watches how Lexa won’t be able to move in time, not with how she’s too focused on her, on _Clarke_ , on grabbing her arm, pulling back so she can’t do something regrettable. She could let it, let the dagger fly, Clarke knows, it would help her, it would free her from her oath to her. Because Pike _is_ right, no matter how derisively he said it. She is on a leash and Heda is the one who holds it.

But it’s without thinking, it’s such an instinctual thing as her arm shoots out and that familiar warmth rushes through her veins. But it’s heavier than usual, it’s faster and stronger and more like a live wire as she focuses on the dagger that flies for Lexa’s head.

It’s in that second, that Clarke realises with such clarity, that she is entirely and utterly doomed.

Because there was never a choice of whether she’d stop the dagger.

The blade freezes just inches from Lexa’s nose, and Clarke watches with a small bit of silent amusement as she blinks doe-eyed at the floating dagger. Her jaw is dropped, but when her eyes manage to peel off the dagger and flick to Clarke, there’s another wave of shock as she seems to understand that Clarke is the reason the dagger isn’t moving, the reason that she’s still alive.

It’s with that thought that Clarke snarls and throws her arm forward, the blade following and zipping past her. It embeds itself into the chest of the guard who’d thrown it, frozen in his shock at the display of magic, and he has no defense as the knife punctures his heart and merely manages a strained wheeze before collapsing to the ground.

There’s an instant roar of panicked shouting’s and Clarke’s already pulling herself up and adopting a defensive stance, but there’s no need when Pike simply raises his hand with a wave, and Clarke doesn’t know what to feel when she sees him grinning at her. Which is strange, as she had quite literally just killed one of his own, and yet he seems happy. _Happy_. Joyful, as his eyes shine as he looks down at her.

No one makes another a move at Pike’s order to stand down, but Clarke sees how everyone is still very much on edge, still waiting for the exact second they can go for her. Their hands don’t move off their weapons. Clarke glances behind her to even see Lexa’s hand inching towards her sword. She shakes her head slightly at her then, and though Lexa throws a glare at her, there’s still unrestrained awe in her eyes as she gazes at her, and her hands fall back to her sides.

Clarke decides she can’t take Lexa looking at her like that and looks back to Pike.

“Well,” Pike says, and that strange grin is still plastered on his face. “Who knew you could be so protective.”

“She is Heda.” Clarke snaps, and the implied _her death is my death_ hangs in the air.

But even Pike seems to know that the defense is weak.

Because he just gives her that delighted grin.

She lets her glare burn into to him, and it leaves her a little saddened to see that he does not, in fact, burst into flames and get eaten alive by fire in front of her. Instead she watches as he stares right back at her, because he’s waiting, Clarke knows this, he’s waiting for the answer of what he had offered before the guard’s interruption. She presses her nails tighter into her palms, sure that if she does so any harder they’ll end up bleeding. Her eyes briefly glance behind her at Lexa, and it’s as she watches her that Clarke knows.

It’s obvious that Lexa very much cares for this boy. She wouldn’t go for all this trouble for him if she didn’t. Clarke also knows he’s very important, and that Lexa is right, if he’s killed, there will be blood to be spilled. And it’s so clear in just the way that Lexa is, even if Clarke’s only known her for a few days, it’s so clear that she would do anything for her people. For the ones she cares for.

Would agree to Pike if it meant keeping her own safe.

Clarke doesn’t know when it happened. When she started giving more a damn about the mission than the escape. But as she stands there, as she stares at the sharp angles of Lexa’s jaw and the still ever present awe in her eyes, how is Clarke expected to just let her degrade herself, let her sink to Pike’s disgusting level, if only for this boy.

She hates being controlled. She really does. But when she looks at Lexa, and then she looks at Pike, she knows. She knows who’s going to be the one who will fall, who _can_ fall. Clarke pushes a long breath through her nose, slowly tears her gaze off Lexa and back to Pike. And it must be obvious, in the way her shoulders slump, so much like Pike’s had in those tunnels. The Gods, apparently, have a sick sense of humour.

Lexa seems to realise what she’s about to do, because her eyes widen, her jaw drops again. Even if Lexa barely knows her, she knows enough of her to know she’d rather chew glass then bow to Pike.

And yet.

Clarke slowly takes a few steps forward, ignores the uneasy shifting of the guards. Her gaze stays solely on Pike. “Okay.” She says, and it doesn’t matter how logically simple the word is, in that moment it holds so many implications and meanings and emotions it’s headache inducing. There’s a hungry fire that lights itself in Pike’s eyes, but Clarke fights off the urge to throw up at the sight of it. “I’ll… I’ll swear to you and you will tell me where the boy is. No bullshitting, no lies. You pull that, and I can assure you, Pike, you will sincerely regret it.”

He lurches off his seat and it’s clear of his excitement. He smirks at her. “I’ll stand by the deal. After all, there’s honour among thieves.”

He’s already making his way down to her, unsheathing a dagger at his side. Clarke stiffens but she manages to keep herself from stepping back. Instead she keeps her resolve, her faux nonchalance composure. “Wait,” she halts, and Pike does actually pause in his approach. “We do this alone.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “There needs a witness.”

“Heda shall be witness.” Clarke offers, though it’s more of a thinly veiled command. Pike keeps his hesitancy and Clarke knows, no matter how much it hurts, she must appeal to his ego if he’s to agree. She needs them alone; it’ll make it far easier. “If I am… to be yours, it will not be in the presence of these lesser men.”

It’s with slight relief that she sees Pike relax, ever so slightly, as arrogance is a language the man easily understands. His eyes do remained narrowed at her, but it’s marginally less, and he nods his head at the bandits still in the room. “Outside.” He calls to them. They don’t actually move at first, seemingly not comfortable with the idea of leaving him alone in a room with her. Clarke doesn’t blame them, because really, they’ve every right to be reluctant. But then Pike’s mouth twists into a snarl as he shouts, “now!” and finally they scatter like mice.

Clarke waits until it’s truly just the three of them before she allows the rest of Pike’s approach. Without needing to look behind she can feel Lexa’s heavy tension, and probably even silent fury, but she can’t do anything, not without losing the chance at such valuable information. For a beat Clarke wishes she were telepathic, so she could tell her without words, that there’s nothing to worry. Because he had broken the code. And Clarke hasn’t forgotten.

Pike stops a few steps from her, and his smirk is wide and shows off his teeth. Clarke, somehow, reigns in on the desire to knock it flat off his face.

“The great and mighty Wanheda,” he mocks, flipping his dagger idly in his hand as he eyes her. “After all your threats, and here you are, about to bow to me. I suppose the Gods are feeling generous for once aren’t they?”

“Get this over with.” Clarke snaps, and though Pike laughs, he complies, slices his open hand with the dagger and reaches for hers. He pauses when he notices the bandage already there, and that delighted grin is back on his face when he looks up at her. Clarke just scoffs at him.

His eyes are still shining in that sick delighted way when he cuts through the bandage, reopening open the slice in her skin that had been healing. Clarke bites back a wince and for second she thinks she hears Lexa suck in a sharp breath, but she can’t be sure.

His eyes are on hers when he raises his hand, and with much reluctance Clarke brings up her own and grips his sliced palm. “Swear it, swear you’re mine Clarke.”

Okay Clarke _definitely_ isn’t imagining it when she hears the leathers of Lexa’s gloves creak with how hard their fisting.

It’s so painful, she can feel her very _soul_ objecting to it, but she forces her lips to move, knows that it’s short pain for long relief, that if she can make this, then she can finally go on with what she really came here to do. “I swear it.” She whispers, and Pike gives her one of the most twisted smiles she’s ever seen.

She wrenches herself away the absolute second she can. Her hand is shaking, Clarke realises, and even if blood is bleeding down her palm she fists her hand, ignores the red she feels trickle out of it and drip onto the stone below them. Pike makes a move to step back but Clarke is instantly moving forward, forcing him to stay close.

“I’ve done my part. Where is the boy?”

He eyes her for a long while, and for a moment Clarke actually thinks he really isn’t going to hold true to his word, and _Gods_ is she already planning what animals to feed his organs to, when he sighs and bobs his head. “He’s being held further north in Azgeda. Not at the palace, not with the queen. There’s a village, a days ride northeast from here, Bredon it’s called. When you make it to Bredon you follow where the frozen lake sits at the edge of it. Cross the lake, there’s an abandoned cave system. In there is the boy.”

Clarke watches him carefully in effort to find if he’s lying. But for once, it seems, that he’s actually not, and he speaks nothing but truth. Clarke pulls her back straight, releases the breath of air she didn’t realise she was holding. She holds Pike’s gaze for many painful seconds before muttering, “thank you.”

He nods at her again, and just as he smiles, opens his mouth to speak, Clarke is stepping closer towards him. Till their faces are inches away.

“But, I think you should know Pike, that I’m not blind.” She utters the words close, so all his attention is on her. Not on her hand as it slowly and subtly reaches down. “We have a code. You know it, we all do. Like you say, there’s honour among thieves, and it relies heavily on the code.” Her fingers wrap around the hilt of her dagger, the one that Lexa had given her, and as her fingers curl around it she smiles at him. “You got children involved.”

Pike’s brow furrows slightly.

Clarke speaks up before he can say anything. Before he can realise.

“You broke the code.” She whispers.

And that’s when he seems to realise what’s about to happen. Because there’s only one outcome for when someone breaks the code. His eyes blow wide, and his mouth opens no doubt in preparation to roar for his men, to call them back, and the dark part of her enjoys the panic as she sees him understand why she had made sure they were alone.

Because before a sound can come out of his jaw she’s driving the dagger sideways into his throat and smothering his mouth, watching with cold eyes as he stares at her, open mouthed beneath her hand.

She watches as the light leaves him, and wiping the spray of blood off her cheek, she lets his dead body collapse to the ground.

Clarke only gives herself a half second of breathing time before she knows they need to move, _now,_ and get the fuck out of here and put as much distance as they can. She turns behind her and calls for Lexa, because she’s sure that they can climb out the empty stone window at the side, dig their hands into the stone and slowly clamber their way down. She had eyed the wall before they came in. They could work it, Clarke reckons. But when her gaze meets Lexa, she’s surprised to find the shock there.

The anger.

“Clarke,” she breathes, and her eyes flicker between her and Pike’s dead body. “You…”

“No time,” Clarke hisses, snagging her arm and hauling her to the window. “Curse me out when we’re far away and safe.”

Lexa snatches her arm from her like her touch is ice and Clarke pretends it doesn’t hurt. “Clarke, you just-“

“Lexa I _know_ , but if we don’t get out, right now, somebody’s gonna’ come in and we’re dead. And we can’t save your boy if we’re both maimed, alright?”

Lexa still very much looks like she wants to throw her _out_ the window rather than help her climb through, and honestly Clarke is a little terrified of the dark glare she is getting from her and the dangerous twitch in her jaw.

But she seems to know that Clarke is right, even if in that moment, she would much rather admit anything but.

She nods at her, and Clarke gives her a relieved nod back, climbing out onto the stone perch. The coldness is the first thing to hit her, and Clarke feels a little foolish for forgetting just how cold it is outside simply from being surrounded by so many fires when she was in. She carefully edges her way to the side, the toes of her boots peaking over the ledge, and soon she finds that Lexa is climbing through and joining her.

Clarke ignores the warmth of Pike’s blood she can still feel on her hands and works on finding a way down.

Lexa doesn’t say a thing the entire way.

-

They don’t speak till they’re long gone from Pike’s fort.

The moment they hit the hard ground after climbing the wall they bolt, take out the few bandits that casually patrol the fort. It’s Lexa who does that, and it’s truly terrifying how quickly and effortlessly it is done, how one second they’re there and the next she’s fisting their shirts and throwing them flying behind. At seeing such an obvious display of extreme strength Clarke’s footing had stumbled, her eyes blowing wide as she saw first hand of Heda’s spirit. Heda’s abilities.

But then Lexa is back and they’re running again and Clarke moves on.

They don’t stop moving till their chests are heaving, till swallowing air feels more like gulping fire. They push far enough that they end up on a main road of some sort that seems to lead generally in the northeast direction so they end up following it, still running, still moving, until Clarke honestly can’t feel her legs and they give out from under her, collapsing to the ground. It’s as she’s on the frozen dirt, as she’s coughing from just how _painful_ it is to breathe, on her knees and leaning most of her weight on the tree next to her, that someone finally says something.

It’s Lexa, and her voice is so dark and burning that Clarke already knows she’s fucked.

“You killed him.” She breathes, and even if her stamina is better than Clarke’s, it’s not by much, so she’s breathing hard too. “You _killed_ him,” she snaps, and it’s more self-preservation than anything that makes Clarke jump to her feet.

You don’t hear a voice like that and stay on the ground.

“Yeah, I did,” Clarke answers, and she tries desperately to get her breathing back. Her throat feels so raw from all the running she can almost taste blood. “You and I both know he deserved it.”

Lexa’s eyes flash as they snap onto her. “You swore a blood oath to him.”

Clarke stares at her incredulously before scoffing. “Seriously?” she hisses. “It’s _Pike_. Why would you ever think I’d stand by him?”

“You swore!” she snarls and when Lexa bursts forward Clarke jumps back. Lexa bares her teeth. “It doesn’t matter who you’re sworn to. It is a _blood oath_ , they are _sacred_. And you broke it. You killed him.”

But Lexa’s anger isn’t one sided, and Clarke feels herself push back her shoulders, ready herself for a fight. “He was already doomed to die,” Clarke growls and now she moves forward too. “He kidnapped and harmed a _child_. His death was inevitable. He was on _nothing_ but borrowed time.”

“You broke your oath!” Lexa shouts at her and Clarke doesn’t even _care_ if knocking horns with Heda will get her killed, even if she knows that if she had any common sense she would submit herself to Heda and beg for mercy.

Clarke scoffs sharply at her. “Why do you care? He fucking deserved it—“

“Because you swore to _me_! How can I trust you will not betray me as well?” Lexa snarls.

They’re both breathing hard as they stand head to head, but it’s not from the escape anymore. Clarke blinks once she realises the cause of Lexa’s ire, and she’s so thrown, she’s just so _furious_ that all she can do is stagger back as Lexa’s burning gaze drills into her.

“Are you kidding me?” Clarke breathes, and even if she utters the words low they still carry like thunderclaps across the space between. “Of course I won’t betray you.”

Lexa scoffs at her. “You just killed the last person you swore not to.” She sneers. “I can’t trust your word. I can’t trust _you_. Not if you can so carelessly break an oath so sacred.”

Clarke can feel her magic beginning to spill out of her with the amount of fury that burns under her skin. There are sudden winds that start to streak by them, her hair billowing out at her sides and flaying in the winds. If Lexa notices she doesn’t show any signs of caring, and in fact Clarke thinks that Lexa’s own anger is messing with her too, because she can see how Heda flickers in her eyes like a dog ready to be loosed from its cage.

“I will never betray you.” Clarke mutters, and the winds grow stronger when Lexa glares coldly at her.

“You haven’t given me reason to trust you.”

“I saved your life!” Clarke snaps but it only seems to rile Lexa up more, and it’s jarring when she suddenly realises that the anger that shines in Lexa’s eyes also holds the traces of hurt.

“For what!” she roars back. “I can’t know that you’ve only done that to fool me! To _make_ me trust you!”

The winds are so strong now that they actually shove Clarke back a little, but pride is a stubborn that grips them both, that keeps their body swaying but feet planted as the gusts grow and grow. It feels like her chest is about to explode and Clarke knows she’s so close to breaking, to completely falling apart, so it’s with a renewed fire, a last ditch effort does she move forward even closer to her.

“Damnit Lexa I’m not going to fucking to kill you, I’m sworn to you.” She growls.

Lexa looks like she’s going to break too because she actually laughs at her, and it’s the most cold and empty of sounds she’s ever heard and never wants to hear again. “How can I _ever_ trust you when—“

“Because I swore on _his_ fucking grave for you!” Clarke roars, and it’s so loud and broken and full of _pain_ that finally, _finally_ , it actually seems to work. Lexa blinks slowly at her, her mouth hanging open, and Clarke’s not even ashamed of the tears that are slipping from her eyes. “For Pike it was on me, but for you, for fucking you it was for _him_. It was for fucking him.”

And Clarke’s knows she’s breaking now, she’s knows there’s no stopping it. Because all at her once her fury and rage are drained from her and all of sudden the winds that had been struggling them disappear like they had never been.

But Clarke still keeps her back tall as she feels her world crumble beneath her feet. “I swore on his fucking grave. So don’t you _dare_ fucking insult me and say that I’d ever, _ever_ , do anything to spit on it.” She’s yelling the words, but they’re not strong, too broken and cracked. A sob breaks out before she can stop it in time. “I swore on him that I would stand by you. And I will never do anything to disgrace him. Never. So fuck it, kill me if you want. For breaking an oath to Pike. But don’t you _dare_ fucking accuse me of being willing to spit on my father’s grave.”

It’s too much. Everything is too much. Clarke can only stumble back and stagger over to the nearest tree to let her back fall into it, to let her body slide and not even care for the bark that bites into her skin as she does. All she can do is let herself slide to the still cold ground and screw her eyes shut to stop those stupid fucking tears.

There’s too much silence that follows after something so loud. Her throat is rubbed raw with the pain of her shouts, and she hates how suffocating the quiet is, how it feels like it’s thick hands that are wrapping around her throat and suffocating her of any last pockets of peace. She doesn’t dare let another sob through, there’s only the sound of her harsh and stuttered breathing.

Clarke doesn’t know how long it is until she opens her eyes. She also doesn’t know what she expects to see when they flutter open, but it’s certainly not the sight of Lexa kneeling in front of her. Clarke doesn’t even have the strength to scoff or snarl. She’s just too tired, far too fucking exhausted by everything to waste her breaths.

They hold each other’s gazes.

And Clarke doesn’t know what’s going to happen. But she knows that it’s definitely not how oddly soft Lexa’s eye are in this moment, how they shine with unshed tears too, how hard she seems to be clenching her jaw. They don’t break their stare, and when Lexa reaches a trembling hand forward, Clarke eyes it as it moves slowly into her space, its pace careful and deliberate enough that Clarke could pull away if she wanted, could reject it.

She doesn’t.

When it touches her jaw, and shifts so that it cradles her cheek, Clarke doesn’t even try to pretend. She closes her eyes at the touch and subconsciously leans towards it. And when she finds there’s a sudden pressure at her forehead, of what she knows of Lexa leaning against her with her own, Clarke finds that she’s not surprised like she should be.

Instead she just screws her eyes shut harder as another wave of tears hit.

“I’m sorry.” Lexa whispers, and she can feel her breath on her lips.

There’s something monumental in this moment. Clarke can’t quite tell what it is, but it’s more something of the heart, something she doesn’t understand but does, that makes her realise. As she sits there, back against the tree and Lexa’s hand on her cheek and their heads touching. As she feels Lexa’s thumb gently stroke her jaw with a tenderness that Clarke _knows_ means nothing but trouble.

And yet, this time, she doesn’t pull away.

She lets herself sink into the moment with every ounce of her being.

“ _Fiya_ ,” Lexa whispers again, and Clarke nods into her hand. She doesn’t entirely know what for, but somehow, Lexa seems to understand. So they stay there, in that moment that is nothing but their own, sharing the same air, finding some dangerous solace in the shared touch, shared connection.

And really, her heart has never felt so calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i hope you enjoyed that. i will admit that this is entirely a self-indulgent fic bc ive been wanting to write a fantasy/magic au for ages, and since my self control is fucking appalling, here we are. anyway, thank you for reading. really brightens my day that you did.  
> next chapter should hopefully come out quickly, but im making no promises  
> (also, for any wondering what clarke's wanheda get-up looks like, it's the nightingale armour in skyrim. shit is fucking badass)
> 
> translations:  
> Dison Wanheda? - This is Wanhda?  
> Sha Heda - Yes Commander  
> Onya, lid em in op. - Anya, bring her up.  
> Ai laik yun, Heda. - I am yours, Heda.  
> Nou na, Onya. - Do not dare, Anya (this sentence is dodgy eeeek)  
> Gostos, breik em au. - Gustus, release her.  
> Fiya - I’m sorry


	2. But My Heart's Calm When It's In Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lexa: clarke can you do the dishes please?  
> clarke, immediately: well firstly, as a thief,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in a completely unprecedented turn of events, i've overwritten. again. fucking unbelievable.  
> but, anyway, here's part two. sorry it's a fucking horrific length i'm only JUST realising i should have broken these up into like 10 chaps of something. well. too late now. seriously tho, i hope you enjoy part two as much as i enjoyed writing it.  
> also a warning for violence in this one. gets a little brutal, so if youre easily squeamish, you may wanna skip over some bits.  
> also also i haven't scoped this bad boy out yet for typos so if typos are something that bug you kindly point them out and ill fix them for you.  
> (for that Full Immersion listen to: Faces by Rueben Hollebon) (or, if you want a more chill experience: Goldrush by Paper Aeroplanes)

They find an inn, eventually.

For too long they stay in that position, breathing in the same air and relishing in each other’s touch, but soon the cold becomes a little too obvious, a little too biting, and they’re forced to come back to the reality. When Clarke’s eyes had fluttered open it was less surprising than it should have been to see that Lexa had already been looking at her. And it was that look again, the one she could never quite place.

Like everything in existence has fallen away save for her.

Clarke was the one who’d pulled away first. It was like being drenched in a bucket of ice-cold water, the sudden snap back to the present. She had been quick to burst to her feet, Lexa just jumping back in time, and only once the lingering silence had become too suffocating and stifling between them, in their intense shared stare, did Clarke cave and spoke first.

“We should be close Bredon. This path is well used.” Clarke had muttered, but her voice was scratchier than she intended. There was a roughness that couldn’t be shaken after what had been said.

Even Lexa, Heda herself, didn’t seem to know what to do in that moment either.

So of course, Lexa had nodded, and Clarke had nodded back, and averting her gaze Clarke had cleared and throat and forced herself back on the path of the road. It wasn’t long till she felt Lexa saddle back up by her side again, but Clarke wasn’t blind to the way she gave her more space than usual.

Clarke still refuses to acknowledge the unease the realisation had brought.

It was as the sky was bleeding did they finally stumble upon the village. It was small, with few people and even fewer houses. The further they pushed the more the ground became frozen, and Clarke’s sure that the higher they trek up to the caves they’ll be facing snow. They managed to locate an inn, and after navigating through the dirt streets and ignoring the curious glances they earned from the locals, they both paused by the inn door.

Clarke’s hand had paused over the handle. Her back was still tight and her breathing was still sharper and quicker than it should, but Lexa hadn’t made comment of it. Not yet anyway. But it was that moment that Clarke knew that she needed more time. With a strained sigh, she had turned around.

Clarke still doesn’t understand how Lexa seemed to instantly know.

Lexa’s hood was back on, the mask at her face to obscure who she was. No one should recognise her. “You go in, get us a room. I need… I’m going to take a walk.”

Lexa’s eyes had narrowed then. “When will you return?” she asked after a prolonged silence. But Clarke knew what she was really asking.

If whether she would return.

If she was still loyal.

“I’ll be back by nightfall.” Clarke had replied.

Lexa very much looked like she’d rather keep her at an arm’s length, but she had given in, had sighed and briefly closed her eyes. “By nightfall.” She had reiterated, and when her eyes had flickered back open once more the green was vivid and penetrating. “No later.”

When Clarke nodded at her, Lexa returned the gesture and walked past her into the inn.

The stars are out now. Clarke pulls at her leathers a little tighter, but it doesn’t offer much warmth. If they’re going to be pushing further up then they’ll need a supply run to avoid frostbite. Her teeth are chattering when she finally dusts the dirt off her boots at the mat by the inn door, and with a slightly shuddered breath does she rest her hand against the handle and push.

She had stuck by word. Clarke had told Lexa she needed a walk, and that’s what she’d done. In any other normal circumstance she would have snatched at the opportunity of escape, but there is something that kept her tethered, kept her back, that made her make promises and blood oaths and swears. She was grateful though for Lexa letting her be alone, as the walk was heavily needed. Now that she’d been able to have time to think, to reflect on what she’d done, the tension in her shoulders is far more relaxed.

The moment she steps through she’s hit with a wave of warmth, and Clarke’s helpless to suppress her relieved sigh. She wipes her boots once more before closing the door behind her and wandering through the inn. The only light comes from a stone fireplace on side, the soft orange light revealing the oak hay-covered floors and the numerous benches and tables. Clarke scans the few figures sitting around, but she doesn’t spot Lexa.

With a small sigh, and ignoring the eyes she gets from the inhabitants of the inn, she drifts over to the bar and offers a tired smile to the innkeeper.

He’s a small man; with tan skin so tough and wrinkled it looks like leather. But his eyes are old and soft as he returns the smile. “New to the north aye?”

Clarke chuckles. “That obvious?”

“Only strangers dare stay out so late durin’ times like these round here.” The innkeeper says, and Clarke can’t help but frown as she leans on the bench.

‘What you mean?” she asks. She knows she’s far less experienced with the snow and cold, but there’s a nervousness in his voice that betrays something else.

He smiles at her. “Wolves, stranger. Been gettin’ closer each moon. You better watch your hide, and if you hear howlin’,” he shakes his head at her. “You run like Death is at your heels.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Clarke mutters, ignoring the unease in her gut. She sighs once she realises she still hasn’t found Lexa. “Anyway, my… friend came through here, should have gotten a room for two for the night.”

The innkeeper nods slowly. “Aye, up the stairs, second door on your left.” He points her to the far corner, revealing a set of stairs crammed into the side. Clarke’s about to head over when he calls to her and she turns back around. “Your friend told me to ask if you’re hungry when you return. Normally I wouldn’ care, but that woman’s got a glare that could scare demons.”

Clarke scoffs. “Should see her when she’s angry.” Her brow furrows slightly. “Your kitchen still open?”

He gives her a charming smile, revealing a missing tooth. “Always for pretty strangers.”

Clarke sits herself at one of the stools, and it’s not long till a bowl of soup is placed in front of her. She’s been having nothing but what they could hunt for the past few days and it’s with a barely held back moan does she gulp it down. The warmth of the broth is a pleasing addition as well, and finally she feels her fingers stop their trembling. When she’s done she offers the innkeeper a grin, praising him for the food, and as he waves her off she gets up and heads up to the stairs.

There are sudden nerves that flutter in her gut as approaches the door he had pointed her too. She’s still not quite sure on where they stand, her and Lexa, their fight was intense and the type to both start and end wars, but now she’s left in the aftermath with no clue of who won. She forces a slow breath in through her nose and out through her mouth, briefly squeezes her eyes shut, and once she feels some of the knots loosen in her chest as a result she nods to herself and knocks on the door.

It’s only a few seconds until she hears shuffling and then the door is swinging open. Though Clarke has gotten used to the perpetual blank mask that Lexa wears she’s discovered certain tells that tend to betray Lexa. It’s mostly in her eyes, as it seems their vibrance and expressiveness is something not even Heda can tame.

So while most of Lexa is blank, Clarke catches the relief in her eyes.

Before Clarke can even say anything—though she has no idea _what_ to even say—Lexa is frowning at her and reaching a hand. “You are cold,” she says, seeming to notice that while the inn is far warmer than the outside, the walls are still not thick enough to stop the growing winter. Lexa’s fingers graze Clarke’s jaw, where her teeth still chatter ever so subtly, and it sets off alarm bells in Clarke’s mind when she doesn’t flinch from the touch.

But she’s still of enough mind to step back and push past her. “Yeah, we’ll need to get thicker furs or we’ll freeze,” Clarke mutters, and the space where Lexa fingertips had ghosted her cheek _burns_ —but she ignores it like she always does. Without looking at her Clarke wanders further into the room, plopping down in the nearest chair and shucking off her boots.

Except it’s as she’s staring at her shoes, refusing to glance up, that she realises that Lexa hasn’t moved from the door. Gritting her teeth she forces her eyes up. And that’s when she sees it. Why Lexa’s so still.

Clarke’s eyes slowly trail to the side and at the one bed.

_Great._

“They only had a double available.” Lexa sighs, and only now does Clarke notice how her hood and mask are gone, the harder, outer layers of her armour. She’s greeted with the sight of the most skin she’s seen from Lexa, with her bare toned arms that have her momentarily forgetting the current issue.

Clarke’s gaze zeros in onto Lexa’s tattoo, the way the black ink wraps around her arm like square jaws on either side. She’s up before she realises and walking over, and she doesn’t seem to notice how Lexa stiffens at her approach, the sharp breath she pulls in. She’s close enough now to touch and without thinking she does, trailing a slow finger over the tattoo. Goosebumps follow the finger’s path.

Art has always been something she’s found a special solace in. But art doesn’t put food on the table, so it’s something she rarely gets the chance to indulge. A part of her has always wanted a tattoo, but that finality of the decision, where once it’s done it’s _done_ , there’s no going back; it’s always given her a bit of fear. She admires Lexa for it. To her, the decision is monumental.

“Clarke,” Lexa calls softly, but it’s enough for Clarke to snap back to reality. She practically jumps back and she can feel how cheeks light aflame.

“Right, sorry,” Clarke stammers, and she clears her throat in hopes it eases the sudden tension in the air. “It’s just, um, your tattoo…” with a shaky breath she dares to raise her head, to look Lexa in the eye. She’s surprised how dark they are. “It’s beautiful.”

Lexa swallows and Clarke watches her throat bob. “I had it done after my Ascension.”

“When you became Heda,” Clarke clarifies, her voice much lower than she intended.

“Yes.”

They stare at each other for many heavy seconds. The tension feels like a bowstring that’s on the brink of snapping.

It’s Lexa who breaks the silence.

“I shall take the floor,” she murmurs, closing the door and striding to where Clarke had been by the chair.

Clarke blinks at her. “Are you serious? Of course you’re not taking the floor.” She watches as Lexa pauses from where she was preparing to lay her coat down. “You’re Heda. You won’t sleep on the floor.”

“I will be perfectly fine Clarke.” Lexa sighs and Clarke rolls her eyes at her.

“Come on Lexa. We’re not teenagers. We’ll share.” Clarke wanders over to the double bed and strips herself of the tightest leathers, leaving her in her under shirt and pants. She dumps her stuff in the corner, and when she turns around she finds Lexa’s gaze to already be on her. She’s also still very much holding her coat like she’s intent on sleeping on the floor.

As if reading her thoughts, Lexa narrows her eyes at her. “Clarke, I can—“

“You’ll freeze on the floor.” Clarke cuts off, crawling into the far side of the bed that’s backed into the wall. She burrows herself under the furs, gratefully taking the warmth it gives, but when she sees that Lexa has _still_ not moved she throws a hard glare at her. “Get in the damn bed Lexa.”

That seems to finally do it. Lexa lets out a frustrated sigh, but she complies, walking over and onto the bed, adjusting herself so she’s under the furs. Despite the beds bigger size, they’re still surprisingly close to each other and Clarke suddenly wonders if maybe she _should_ have let Lexa take the floor. But her closeness also brings in body heat, and it’s subconscious how Clarke inches herself a little closer, so she can try and absorb it in.

Lexa doesn’t make comment of it.

Though Clarke knows she should roll over, should put her back to Lexa’s face, which lies so painfully close to her own, instead she stays. Instead, with her eyes she traces the features in front of her, counts the eyelashes, the beauty mark just at the corner of Lexa’s lip.

There’s no light left in the room when Lexa eventually speaks up.

“The punishment for breaking a blood oath is death.” She mutters quietly, but the heaviness of the words makes it seem like it was roared.

Clarke feels her heart stutter in her chest.

Lexa’s eyes are boring into hers, almost glowing in the dark. “You should be executed.”

“Will you?” Clarke mutters back, her voice like Lexa’s quiet, a whisper.

The silence that comes then is deafening.

But it’s only once Clarke is sure she can hear the ringing in her ears does she hear Lexa’s soft reply. “There were no witnesses. Perhaps a few of Pike’s, but they are thieves, their claims can easily be disproven.” Clarke hears Lexa shaky intake of breath. And even softer, even _gentler_ , does Lexa finally finish with, “and I saw nothing.”

Clarke has to close her eyes to try and tame her relief. She had known it was risky and reckless then, to kill Pike after being sworn to him. But some things are worth death. The consequences that come. Yet Lexa is willingly giving her a way out, she’s _sparing_ her, even if all logic points that she shouldn’t. That Clarke has already played enough with her. She has the location of the boy anyway now, if she wanted, she could retrieve him herself.

But instead all Clarke does is breathe a soft, “thank you,” and when her eyes involuntarily drop down, to the lips just an inch from her own, Clarke swallows thickly and rolls over.

Not only is she sworn to Lexa through blood, she now also owes Lexa a life debt.

And the worst part is the thought doesn’t terrify her like it should.

-

Her sleep is fitful.

Her dreams are vicious things, shadows that are alive and sink dark teeth into her bones, send coldness right down through the depths of her soul. She tries to scream but the sound is muffled and useless. Her entire struggle is useless, everything is, and it’s once she attempts one last swipe at an enemy she can’t see does she give up. She lets her body go lax, releases a breath that holds more than air, and just as she feels her entirety become swallowed by the shadows she bursts awake.

She jolts upwards to consciousness with a gasp. There’s a cold sweat that breaks out from her hairline, but worse is the wetness she can feel leaking from her eyes. She’s had this nightmare before though. She knows she simply needs to wait it out, just grit her teeth and take the pounding heart and uneven panicked breaths.

Except suddenly she feels a hand at her back, massaging slow and repetitive circles. She’s still struggling to breathe properly, but the pressure helps, and as she begins to feel herself come back, she focuses harder and realises that someone is murmuring soothing nothings into her ear. She can’t quite make it out, but the tone is calming and she focuses on it.

Eventually her breathing starts to even out. The air is suddenly cold too, without the burning of her skin to keep her warm the room is quick to return to its usual freezing temperatures. Slowly, she blinks herself back, and she realises just who has just helped her through her panic attack.

Clarke is slow to turn her head behind her to catch Lexa’s gaze. There’s shame that rolls her gut at having Lexa comfort her like that, but when their gazes meet she sees no judgment in that green, no revulsion or even pity. Because Lexa’s gaze is steady and gentle, and though Clarke knows she shouldn’t, she goddamn _knows_ she shouldn’t let herself lean on someone else, for once she does. Takes in the rubbing of her back and quiet reassurances as an anchor in an ocean storm. For once, she gives in.

Lexa slowly withdraws her hand when Clarke is calm again. Clarke swallows heavily, which feels like gulping sand. “Thank you.” She murmurs, her voice quiet like if anyone heard the walls would cave in on her.

Lexa nods at her, and for a few moments they stay sat up together. The hairs rise on her arms from the cold but Clarke ignores it, instead keeps her focus on the woman beside her, and she thinks that she’s never seen Lexa ever this gentle before, this open. It’s both terrifying and breathtaking.

“Do you get them often?” Lexa asks her quietly.

Clarke can’t take their shared intense stare anymore and turns her head away from her. She instead stares at her fidgeting fingers. “Yeah. Always been prone to them, ever since I was a kid.”

“There’s great bravery in fighting one’s own mind.”

Clarke can’t help her small smile. “Perhaps, but I can’t knock someone on their ass like you can.” She finally finds the strength to look towards Lexa again, and she’s glad she does when she sees her with the tiniest of smiles on her lips.

“You would have made a great warrior.” She mutters softly, and the smile slowly slips off her lips. Clarke’s disappears too. She swallows.

“Maybe in another life.” Clarke murmurs.

When Lexa’s stare grows a notch too intense Clarke breaks their gaze and releases a heavy sigh.

She doesn’t know what it holds.

“We need to get moving.” Clarke says, and though when she glances at her in the corner of her eye she sees how Lexa clenches her jaw, she doesn’t object, and soon she’s sliding out of the bed and Clarke is mimicking.

She’s quick to get herself ready. The longer she stays in the room the more suffocating it feels. She tries to tell herself that what had happened this morning was nothing, that it _meant_ nothing, that Lexa would have done the same for anyone. But her mind isn’t done torturing her, and the thoughts slam into her over and over again. By the time she’s putting on her boot she practically shoves them on and stumbles for the door. Lexa is ready a moment later, though her movements are far less frantic.

They have a quick breakfast that is mostly just bread and cheese. Lexa is back in her gear that hides her appearance, and Clarke pointedly ignores the disappointment in her gut that she doesn’t get to see Lexa’s face anymore. The only slight reconciliation she has is Lexa can’t eat with a mask, so for those precious moments she’s treated back with the sight of the face that’s becoming increasingly harder to forget.

When they’re done they get to their feet. They pause on the way out, Lexa paying the innkeeper despite Clarke’s glare. It’s as Lexa’s turning around from the bar does Clarke call for the innkeeper’s attention, reaching out a hand and gently grabbing Lexa’s arm instinctively. Lexa instantly stops and leans back towards her.

“Hey, there a market on today? Or somewhere we can get some furs?” she asks him.

The innkeeper smiles at her. “Looking’ for warmth stranger?” at Clarke’s playful glare he chuckles at her. “The Gods must be shining upon you, there’s a mornin’ market today. Should be up and runnin’ by now aye. Oh,” he squints his eyes at her. “You lookin’ for horses?”

Clarke opens her mouth then closes it. Her gaze flicks to Lexa for the answer, as she’s still very much in charge, and after a few seconds Lexa gives her a nod. “Yeah, you got some?” Clarke asks, turning back to him.

“Aye. I seen your leathers when you came in, high quality you only get in the rich streets of Polis. Ain’t really the type for rich folk, but you’ve been kind,” he gives her a warm smile. “And I know the importan’ ones when I see them. Gotta couple mares out back, show some coin and they’re yours.”

Clarke’s eyes widen, but she fails to hide her excited grin. “That’s… that’s incredibly kind of you.” She breathes.

He scoffs and waves her off. “Just keep yourself safe, girl. You don’t know these lands, but we do. Don’t ride at night.” He warns her. She remembers his other cautions from last night as well.

Her and Lexa share a glance before Lexa gives him the coin.

Clarke is unable to contain her giddy grin when he leads them around back and reveals the two horses to them. She’s ridden before, but only once or twice was it a horse, and there’s a childish excitement that burns through her veins as she takes in the gorgeous beasts. Both of their furs are pale, though one has a black streak that runs down the front of its head to its nose. There are also subtle grey specks that are spread throughout its fur and Clarke gently lets her hand glide over them.

She smiles when she offers a hand for the horse to examine and she’s able to stroke its head. “She’s beautiful,” Clarke mumbles, eyes still drinking in the sight of the horse. Its dark eyes seem to taking her in as well.

“You take good care of them,” the innkeeper says, and it’s obvious the pride in his voice from Clarke’s praise. “Get your gear and I’ll prepare them for you aye.”

Finally Clarke manages to tear her gaze off the horse and offers him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He nods at her and Clarke knows they need to hurry up. She lingers for a beat though, her hand coming up and stroking the black streak lining the horse’s head. At her touch it leans its head lower and steps closer to her. “We’ll be back soon,” Clarke promises the horse, and at the horse’s huff she assumes it as agreement.

When she finally peels herself away she doesn’t seem to notice how Lexa’s gaze had been on her the entire time.

-

It had snowed overnight.

As they walk through the market there’s now a layer of white that blankets the ground and rooftops. The last time Clarke saw snow was years ago, so she takes in the sight with a bit of wonder, blinking up into the morning light and relishing in the slight crunch in her step. She notices Lexa doesn’t seem to be quite entranced with it like her, but these is a small curve to her lips that is subtle enough to almost be missed.

Almost.

The innkeeper wasn’t lying about the market. It’s small, but her and Lexa still spend a good amount of time engrossed in it. There’s a blacksmith that captures Lexa’s especial attention, and for a quick while Clarke drifts away from Lexa’s side as she talks with the blacksmith and continues on their search for thicker furs.

When Lexa comes back by her side Clarke’s used all the coins she’d had with her—which had been reluctantly given back to her by Anya just before they’d left—and has a wonderfully warm fur coat draped over her shoulders. Clarke hands off the other tucked under her arm to Lexa, who takes it with a grateful smile. They spend some time grabbing a few more supplies, salves and herbs in case of injuries and some dried meat that smells divine.

They’re just about done, Clarke idly nibbling on a strip of meat as Lexa trails her finger over the wares of a hawkish looking lady with dark eyes when Clarke suddenly perks up from where she’d been leaning against the stand. Lexa must notice it in the corner of her eye because she turns her head from where she’d been staring at the wares.

In her peripheral Clarke sees Lexa’s frown. “What is it?” Lexa asks.

Clarke’s gaze stays glued to the man she sees, his form just starting to walk away from a stall of jewelry. “That man,” Clarke says, nodding her head at him. A dangerous grin spreads on her lips. “His pouch is loose.”

Lexa’s eyes bulge and just as Clarke is about to take a step forward a hand is suddenly gripping her arm tightly. “ _No_. Don’t you dare,” Lexa hisses, and it’s Clarke’s turn to frown.

“Oh come on, he won’t even notice,” Clarke scoffs, but Lexa’s glare only grows harder. Clarke huffs. “I’m doing it for you, you know. I saw him grab a necklace that’d look lovely on you.”

“You are _not_ going to _steal_.” Lexa snarls in a whisper. “Have you already forgotten the law?”

“Have _you_ forgotten that you hired a thief’s help?”

Lexa glares at her, though it soon shifts into exasperation. “Just because you are in my service does not make you exempt to the law.” Lexa states, and though it pains Clarke to, she gives in with a long suffering sigh.

“Fine, whatever,” Clarke waves off. Her gaze still trails longingly over the man’s receding figure. “But just know that necklace would have really looked great on you.”

Lexa looks relieved at Clarke’s conceding. She shakes her head at her. “We should keep moving. We have wasted enough time.”

Clarke blows a breath that morphs into a white mist in front of her, but she bobs her head anyway. Lexa offers a respectful nod to the ware owner before she strides past and Clarke follows on after her.

Though there had been hardly anyone out last night the town is far more alive in the morning. There are quite a few people around as they walk through, and more than once does Clarke bump into someone in her attempt to keep up with Lexa’s brisk pace. The bump turns into a crash when she collides with a man so hard that she falls to the ground. The man goes down too, and instantly is Clarke scrambling to her feet and offering a hand to help him up in apology.

“Shit, I’m so sorry I didn’t see you there,” Clarke winces and though the man glares harshly at her from the ground he takes her offered arm and lets her pull him up.

“ _Branwoda_ ,” the man hisses under is breath, wrenching his hand back and knocking shoulders with her as he storms past her. Clarke almost staggers back with the force of the hit.

“Clarke, where are you?” she hears Lexa call, and throwing a withering glare at the man’s retreating form she slips her hand into her pocket and catches back up to Lexa. She finds her to be standing just outside the inn, waiting with a raised brow.

“Sorry,” Clarke apologises, offering her a sweet smile and slipping past her to get to the horses. She hears a sigh from behind her—Clarke’s pretty sure she could identify Lexa through sigh alone by now—but soon is Lexa back by her side and their greeting the horses once more. Clarke’s lips tip upwards when the horse that she’d admired before perks up at seeing her.

They pack their saddlebags and Clarke is only a little surprised to see that the innkeeper has snuck in some bread for them. With a fond smile she heaves herself up on the horse, and once Lexa is on hers and they share a nod like they’d known each other for years, Lexa clicks her tongue and urges the horse forward.

“We’ve an adventure ahead of us, girl,” Clarke whispers to the horse, briefly stroking its mane before following on after Lexa.

It turns out that the river is much further than Pike originally made out. When they leave the warmth of the village and meander they way up the nearest hill for a vantage point, they manage to locate the lake that Pike had mentioned, but its distance is far further out than expected. Clarke curses under her breath, and Clarke thinks that if Lexa weren’t so honorable, she would have too.

It’s when they’re deep into the forest again; trailing up a gradual slope does Clarke reach inside her pocket and pull out the object hidden inside. It causes a slight metallic rustle and gathers Lexa’s attention, and as Clarke reveals what she’s just pulled out and Lexa sees, it’s through much amusement does Clarke watch Lexa’s eyes widen.

Clarke holds out the necklace, lifting it between the gap of the horses and them. She glances between the green stone wrapped in the silver chain and then to Lexa. “I was right,” Clarke grins, “suits your eyes perfectly.”

Lexa’s mask and hood are gone now that they’re in the open again and it means that Clarke gets to see Lexa drop her jaw.

Clarke’s grin widens.

“I can’t believe you,” Lexa breathes, shaking her head at her.

Clarke gently urges her horse so she comes up closer to Lexa. They’re close enough that their legs brush together and garners Lexa’s curious, if slightly annoyed, gaze, those green eyes narrowing at her. Clarke leans forward and reaches out the necklace.

“Try it on?” Clarke tempts.

“It is _stolen_ , Clarke.”

“By the great Wanheda herself.” Clarke smirks at her. “Some consider it quite an honour you know.” At Lexa’s harsh glare Clarke sighs, losing her smirk and instead trying a pleading a smile. “Please?”

Lexa’s glare remains, but Clarke sees how it waivers, and it’s with a frustrated huff does she growl under her breath and begrudgingly take the necklace from Clarke’s hands. The annoyance begins to leak from her features when she starts to actually examine the necklace in her hands, and Clarke watches with a pleased smile as Lexa brushes a cautious hand over the jade stone.

Slowly, Lexa caves and tries on the necklace, and Clarke pretends she doesn’t feel pride when it fits perfectly.

“See, I told you it’d suit you.” Clarke says, but the smile slips off her face and she has to swallow the sudden rock in her throat.

Lexa’s eyes flick up to her, and it seems like she’s unsure of what to speak for a moment too.

Clarke avoids the warmth blooming in her chest from the knowing in Lexa’s gaze and urges the horse forward; putting some space between them and _specifically_ ignoring the disappointment that aches her heart at losing the contact she’d had when their legs pressed together.

It doesn’t mean anything that she stole the necklace for her.

It doesn’t.

It can’t.

-

The sky is white with clouds as they ride.

There’s no gap of blue, only a few patches of grey that warn of possible storms to come, but Clarke is glad for the cover of shadows provided by the clouds. With so much of her life being spent in the dark being drenched in broad daylight always brought her unease. They keep a steady pace with their ride, but the closeness of the trees restricts their ability to sprint. Clarke doesn’t mind anyway. There’s always something distinctly magical about the sounds of a forest.

The sun has travelled far when the silence is finally broken. Her and Lexa don’t speak as they ride through, and though the silence is comfortable, lacks the tension it should hold, there is still a slight tightness to Clarke’s shoulders she can’t quite erase. Because that’s where the problem is, that there _is_ no tension, there’s no sense of discomfort despite the fact that Lexa is a stranger—that she’s goddamn _Heda_.

And really she’s scared; she’s terrified of how easy it is, to fall under Lexa’s voice and her gaze. She’s not foolish enough to be blind to the thing that is building between them. She can feel it; she knows Lexa can too. It’s becoming increasingly worrying how much Clarke is getting accustomed to Lexa’s presence. To her glares and her sighs and her eyes.

Because she’s on a timeline. There is a designated finish to this. This task, this job, there’s an end and a beginning. Once this is over she will likely never see Lexa again. After all, that was the deal wasn’t it? That she would help Lexa and in return she would let her free. Sure, Clarke will forever be bound to her, but Clarke also knows that Lexa is honourable enough to only call on that duty in case of dire need. Lexa will let her go.

And Clarke’s left to wonder if she wants her to.

So when Lexa’s voice speaks up, Clarke is relieved to take in the distraction for her thoughts. She doesn’t need to feel herself spiral anymore.

“May I ask you a question?” Lexa asks. Their horses are in line as they sway next to each other, but Clarke brings hers a little closer at Lexa’s voice.

Clarke turns her head to her, finding Lexa’s eyes already on her. She’s surprised to find there are actually some nerves there in Lexa’s gaze. “You may.” Clarke answers, pretending her heart doesn’t kick up in its own trepidation when Lexa draws in a nervous breath.

“Back at the fort, with…” Lexa swallows, and they both pointedly skip over his name, knowing the floodgates that could open. “You stopped the dagger, with magic.”

Clarke nods at her, and at the confirmation Lexa seems to lose some of her nerves. Instead it’s curiosity that takes its place. It’s a gorgeous thing as well, the light that enters her eyes, and really it takes all of Clarke’s willpower to restrain the urge it builds to reach her hand across and cradle her cheek.

Instead, Clarke watches intently as Lexa’s face grows uncharacteristically soft. “What’s it like?” she asks, and there is such odd hope in her voice, such wistfulness that sounds like something only a centuries old being should be able to carry.

Clarke feels her shoulders go lax from the tension she hadn’t realised was building. “I’m not sure,” Clarke starts, because she really doesn’t. It’s something that’s forever been with her, ever intrinsic to her being. To think of life without it is strange. “It’s… normal. I’ve had it my entire life, since I was born really.” Clarke’s gaze grows distant as old memories begin to hit her, and without noticing a nostalgic smile spreads on her lips.

“Was a right pain to my parents when I was young. Especially when I’d get in trouble. They’d try and discipline me, you know? Hide my favourite toy somewhere I couldn’t reach.” Clarke’s eyes flick to the ground in front of her, spotting a small rock that sits a couple paces away. “They’d hide something away, but then I’d just,” she raises her hand and feels the rush of warmth through her arm, the rock suddenly zipping from the ground and catching into her hand. Clarke turns to Lexa with a smirk, presenting the rock in her hand and enjoying Lexa’s wide eyes. “Drove my mother nuts, Dad loved it though,” Clarke adds, and for a second her voice grows sad.

With a sigh Clarke lets the rock fall back to the ground.

She’s quiet a small while before continuing, as she finds that Lexa gaze is still expectant on her. Still holds its soft curiosity. “It’s just natural I guess. Though, I suppose if I _really_ had to put it down to what it’s like… it’s warmth. Actual warmth, when it’s used, but also when it’s dormant.” Her eyes drift up. “Like the sun. Always there, even at night when it’s not visible. It never goes away.” Something suddenly occurs to Clarke that makes her squint her eyes at Lexa. “That guard, Anya, she has magic too.”

Lexa nods at her, though Clarke can’t quite tell what’s in her eyes anymore. She thinks that it’s something heavy. “Yes, she has always had an affinity for fire. She doesn’t speak of it though; there are those with great fear of people with magic. She worries she would be taken from my side if it became common knowledge.”

Clarke frowns slightly. “Why do you ask then? Of what it’s like?” she questions, keeping her voice gentle, afraid to break whatever bridge has suddenly opened up between them.

Lexa simply smiles at her, but the sadness that bleeds through is heart wrenching. “What do you know of the Commander’s Spirit?”

“It is how Heda is chosen,” Clarke answers, though that’s pretty much the extent of her knowledge, as until meeting Lexa she doubted it even existed. Lexa bobs her head at her.

“It is that and much more. When the Spirit is given to the next Commander and they ascend… they gain certain things. The voices of the past Commanders, but also a superior being, something greater than human.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. “Magic,” she breathes, and Lexa presses her lips together.

“Not entirely,” she murmurs, her gaze switching to the front of her. “It’s not… it’s not like yours. You say yours feel natural, like it is right but, mine is not so. Yours seems to be buried in your blood, but mine is only because I am the vessel.” Lexa sighs, tilts her head back so she stares up into the skies. “There is no warmth. Only duty.”

Clarke lets the silence envelop them. She’s powerless to tear her gaze from Lexa, from the way she gazes up into the clouds like she can see through them, maybe to another world far kinder than this one. Clarke’s eyes trail over Lexa, dropping from the slope of her nose to the curve of her neck, the jawline so sharp she’s convinced if she touched it’d slice her.

Lexa slowly brings her chin down, and when her eyes flick over to her Clarke rapidly snaps her sight to the front in hopes of avoiding being caught staring. It’s entirely Lexa’s fault anyway. Anyone would be caught up in the sight of Lexa; in the rare show of vulnerability Clarke’s not sure she can return. There’s only one other person in her life who she’s ever let herself lean on, and that was really only because Raven had caught her falling her apart by accident.

Clarke knows it a big deal what Lexa offers in this conversation. She knows, but she refuses to accept. The last person she loved was killed, had been caught in the crossfire that her occupation brings. She was younger than, less hardened, cocky in her abilities. She was pushing herself then, seeing just how high up she could steal. Had gone for the wealthiest and dangerous of them all.

And eventually, like all things, her luck had run out.

She was just coming back from a client when she’d found out. Had been so excited, still riding that high from a successful job, but then she had gotten to the bar to celebrate with Raven only to find her completely still. She had told her in a whisper of how she’d finally messed with the wrong person, had gotten too sloppy, too cocky in her approach. That someone had found her identity and that when they’d come for her, come for her home, she hadn’t been there.

But Finn had.

She was too late when she’d found him. They had learnt what Finn was to her, and so had beaten him in her name, in their revenge. By the time she had managed to locate where he was being held he was barely holding on and couldn’t even speak through his pain. It was a mercy then, to delicately slide the blade into his stomach. The perpetrators were long gone, and all she could do was hold him as he was eased through his last shudders of life, cradling his head in her lap. The last of him being nothing more than a pained smile.

Clarke understands now. It’s dangerous, far too dangerous to ever mess with something as damaging as love. For people like her, it’s selfish to entertain such a thing. Finn’s death was years ago, but still it presses on her soul, on her heart, and she won’t be quick to forget it.

So when Clarke is unable to resist Lexa’s stare anyone, how she can feel it drilling into the side of her head, as she slowly turns her gaze so she locks eyes with her. She feels it in her stomach, feels in her chest, in the way her breath gets tangled in her throat and her hands clench into white-knuckled grips on her reins. Because there’s only one thing she feels when her and Lexa share that stare that makes them seem like they’ve known each other for their entire lives not days.

And that’s complete and utter terror.

-

They don’t stop riding, keeping a consistent pace.

As the sun falls further down the faster they dare to push, but there’s anxiety that burns her skin the longer they go, the more the sky begins to bleed. They’re close to the lake Clarke thinks, but not close enough. She remembers the warning from the innkeeper of the dangers of staying out in the night. There are blood red streaks through the clouds now, and Clarke’s nerves finally hit a notch too high.

“We should find shelter,” Clarke warns, her gaze constantly jumping around her surroundings for signs of trouble. Her gut clenches when she realises how in the open they are. They’ve stumbled into a brief clearing from the previously dense clumps of trees, but while it means they can move faster if need be, it also puts them in a more vulnerable position for attack.

“We should not be far from the lake now,” Lexa says, and though her words make Clarke grind her teeth, she can see Lexa is scanning their surroundings as well. “If we keep moving we should reach it by nightfall. Then it would ideal to infiltrate the caves.”

Clarke brings her eyes to her, slightly relieved to find Lexa turn to meet her gaze. “It is too dangerous Lexa, you heard what the innkeeper said.”

But Lexa just shakes her head. “We have wasted enough time. The boy could have been moved by now and we’d have no way of knowing where he is, or if he could have even been…” Lexa’s eyes briefly screw close as she forces a steadying breath. When she opens them the green in them is burning. “We may miss our chance.”

“We’ll miss our chance either way if we don’t find somewhere to stay the night.” Clarke feels her horse tense up below, and she assumes it’s because it can feel her own. She strokes a placating hand down its neck. “Come on, Lexa.” Clarke tries.

Lexa clenches her jaw, but she doesn’t say no outright, so Clarke takes it as progress. “We waste dangerous time,” Lexa warns, and Clarke recognises the fear that hides in Lexa’s voice.

“He will be fine, I’m sure of it. If he’s as important as you say he is, they won’t kill him. Not when he’s that valuable. We have time.”

“And if he’s not?” Lexa questions, but her voice is a whisper now, delicate and afraid. “What then?”

Clarke feels her horse’s tension go even worse and doubles her efforts at stroking its side to reassure it. It let outs a nervous huff, its ears stiff. “You cannot let your fear distract you, not now.” Clarke says, and she tries to keep her tone soft, comforting. “We will find him. We will. But we have to take care of ourselves first. We cannot get to him if we are dead.”

Lexa releases a strained breath, and though it’s clear she’d still much rather keep moving, she nods her head and accepts her defeat. “Okay.” She concedes, and Clarke does her best at giving her a grateful smile, finding that it works a little too well. Because at Clarke’s smile Lexa’s lips tilt upwards as well, and it’s a dangerously fascinating sight. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen a full-blown smile from Lexa, just these small half ones, but even them alone leave Clarke breathless. If Lexa ever gave her a grin with teeth Clarke thinks her heart would give out on her.

She’s so caught up in the sight of Lexa’s smile that when a sudden piercing howl breaks out she jumps. She’s not the only one however to react to the sound, and in a heartbeat the tension that had been rising through her horse suddenly seems to reach a breaking point. It lets out a screeching squeal, loud enough that Clarke is sure her eardrums are going to burst, and abruptly it rises up on its hind legs before bolting.

Though Clarke has ridden before it was only a couple times on a horse and she’s not familiar enough to hold on. She’s thrown off the horse and lands on the ground, all the air getting knocked out of her lungs. A groan escapes her from the impact, and as her eyes flicker open she sees that though Lexa’s horse had reacted similar to hers, she managed to stay on, and instead Lexa clings on desperately as her horse sprints right after Clarke’s own.

“ _Nomajoka_ ,” Clarke mutters under her breath, wincing as she pulls herself up. Her back aches, as does the back of her head. She lifts a gingerly hand to check her head and she’s relieved to find there’s no blood. Just as Clarke gets ready to call for Lexa, knowing that the woman will probably either restrain Clarke’s horse or come back to see if she’s alright, there’s a sudden snarl from behind her and she hastily spins around.

It’s a wolf that’s slowly approaching her, its lips pulled back and its fur near pitch black. It growls low, its sharp teeth practically glistening in the fading light. Its shadow across the snow is long from the setting sun. Clarke’s instantly backing up, snatching the dagger at her side and unsheathing it, and she’s already thinking her chances pretty shoddy until another wolf appears out of the trees too.

And then, because the Gods enjoy fucking with her apparently, behind from the two black furred wolves appears the biggest one. By big, she means _big,_ near the size of a horse big, and when she sees the grey and white fur and the red eyes she knows exactly what it is.

A Direwolf.

Fucking great.

The three of them approach her slow. She notices how the smaller ones spread out, most likely in attempt to circle her and minimise her chances of escape. Their ears are flat against their heads as they let out their steady rumble. Clarke takes in a shuddered breath, watching as the Direwolf unlike its pack mates walks straight for her, still in that slow pace, its teeth far sharper and larger than the ones on the others.

Clarke clenches her hands around the hilt of her dagger. If she can take out the smaller wolves, it may give her a chance to take the Direwolf, or better a chance at escape. She hasn’t quite yet learned how to use magic well in battle, as she’s only ever really used it when she’s had a clear goal in mind. The only exception to this is Lexa. Her magic had been faster and stronger than anything she’d ever done then, and it was entirely in instinct. If should could recreate that then…

The wolf at her right pauses, and Clarke knows its in preparation for a pounce. Her eyes flick to the side as she continues her slow back up and she sees the left one mimicking. The Direwolf doesn’t stop moving though.

“To hell with it,” Clarke mutters, and it takes all of concentration as she lets her magic build, lets the warmth coil in her arms and her chest. The second she finally sees the wolves dive at her she throws out her hand. She focuses on the left wolf, swiping her hand to the side in one swift movement, grabbing the wolf midair and throwing it into the other so that they crash into each other hard enough that when they hit the ground they don’t get back up. Clarke hastily launches to the to the side and just barely misses the Direwolf’s lunge.

Without pausing Clarke summons her magic again and continually sends bursts at the Direwolf to force it back. But while the first one sends it almost flying as it’s thrown back, her attacks grow consecutively weaker with each throw. In the corner of her eye she spots one of the smaller wolves sway up to its feet, the other thankfully staying down, and just as it begins to run for her she chances a second to throw her dagger at the wolf. She sends a quick spur of wind to help guide it and gratefully it lands in the wolf’s eye. It collapses to the ground without another sound.

The Direwolf only pauses a second for its fallen pack mate, letting out an enraged roar and coming at her with renewed fire. She can feel her magic draining, and when the Direwolf takes the opportunity to suddenly burst forward at her Clarke makes a last ditch effort to throw a nearby fallen branch at it, the wood just smashing into it in time to throw off its balance.

The Direwolf is thrown to the side but Clarke doesn’t waste time to bolt. She knows she can’t outrun the beast, but she also knows it can’t climb, so without breathing she latches onto the nearest tree and begins to scramble her way up. The bark bites into palms but the pain is easy to ignore, digging her nails into the oak and hauling herself up as fast as she can. It’s only a little way to go until she should be high enough. Her hand is just grazing the final branch needed when she hears a gut-wrenching snarl from below her, and it’s the only warning she has till she feels something grab her leg.

A scream rips its way out of her throat as she’s roughly jerked down. The slam into the ground sends a fresh wave of pain to the back of her head, but she has no time to think of it as the Direwolf starts to hastily drag her through the snow. Its jaw stays clamped on her lower leg, red on its teeth as she’s drawn back with terrifying speed. The pain from her leg screams at her but adrenaline helps to numb so without pause she uses her free leg to kick at the Direwolf’s head.

She can feel the world slipping under her back as she’s pulled, the wet snow allowing her to be dragged with dangerous ease. Her boot slams into the beast’s head over and over but the thing is resilient and takes the blows with barely a flinch.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Clarke growls when she sees just _where_ the Direwolf is dragging her. She can see it just over the hulking animal’s shoulder, a cave that must serve as its home. If it gets her there she’s doomed. No way its pack only consisted of the three of them. The teeth at her leg bite down harder and abruptly shake its grip, tearing at her flesh more and making her scream again. She kicks with renewed effort but it does nothing, and soon Clarke is panting and her gaze is snapping up, searching for anything to help.

When the Direwolf hauls her past a fallen tree Clarke’s arm shoots out to the closest grip she can find. Her hands latch onto a thick branch, and with all the power she has she holds on, the Direwolf snarling as it’s unable to drag her anymore. The Direwolf growls loud enough to scare a flock of birds from the trees and suddenly Clarke finds herself in the worst game of tug of war she’s ever experienced. Her leg feels like its being ripped out of her socket with how hard the Direwolf is pulling, and the only hint she has is the creak of the branch before suddenly the Direwolf’s strength wins and it’s snapping off.

It snarls in victory and resumes its pulling, but Clarke’s hands stay gripped to the branch. She sucks in a deep breath before she forces her core up and leans forward, ignoring the pain that _explodes_ from her leg in response. With a snarl of her own she jams the branch as hard as she can into the beast’s neck.

The branch pierces its skin, but it must be like steel because it barely goes in. But it’s enough for the Direwolf to abruptly let go of her leg and rear back, howling in pain. Clarke’s suddenly dropped from the Direwolf’s grip and with frantic breaths she turns onto front and tries to jump up to her feet. She only makes it a few metres before her injured leg gives out and she falls to the snowed ground.

“Fuck,” Clarke hisses, her head snapping behind her just in time to see that the Direwolf has recovered and is coming at her again. She rolls to the side at the last minute to miss its lunge, and now on her back her hands shoot out when there’s a sudden pair of jaws diving for her throat. She grips its muzzle on both the top and bottom, holding its jaw open like a wrench. The Direwolf snarls at the feeling of being restrained, unable to clamp down. Its teeth hangs just inches from her nose saliva and blood being thrown onto her face as she feels its roar vibrate through her very fingers.

Clarke’s sure she’s met her end when she hears an angel’s voice.

“Clarke, where are you!” Lexa calls, and it sounds like it’s from behind her but Clarke is no position to check.

“A little busy here Lexa!” Clarke snarls back, and she feels some of her strength begin to wane, the Direwolf’s jaw slowly opening more and moving towards her neck. Its massive body hovers over her. Clarke lets out a shaky breath, feels the grip of her fingers begin to slip, lose their hold. She even attempts to see if she can summon her magic, but she had wasted too much of it before. Even if the branch is still stabbed into its neck, poking out like a needle in a pincushion, it’s not enough.

But then Clarke hears a roar, and it’s not from the beast above her. She only has time for her brow to furrow slightly when all of the sudden the razor sharp teeth ready for her throat disappear, and Clarke is treated to the sight of Lexa wrapping her arms around the Direwolf’s belly and heaving it off her. The Direwolf is thrown through the air with the force of it, slamming into the ground and rolling into the snow.

Clarke releases the breath she’d been holding, panting hard with adrenaline. She shouldn’t have bothered though, because as her eyes flick up to see Lexa sprinting for the Direwolf that struggles up to its paws, she loses her breath all over again.

There’s blood that drenches her body, her chest and her arms and her legs, sprays and specs of red dotted on her face. Clarke sees she’s weaponless but that doesn’t stop her from pulling her lip back in eerily semblance to the Direwolf snarling at her. The beast lunges for her but so does Lexa and they tackle each other to the ground, rolling in the dirt and snow, a mess of feet and fists and fangs. Clarke hisses as she forces herself up to her feet, determined to help her.

The Direwolf manages a swipe at Lexa’s side, but Heda only lets through a grunt at what Clarke knows to be blinding pain. Clarke limps for her as fast as she can, but when she sees the Direwolf pounce for Lexa, the way its ginormous muscles ripple along its lean body, she finds her hand shooting out without meaning too. And it’s like before, the magic that all of her sudden rips its way down her arm with intensity and heat she’s never felt before. Just as the Direwolf’s flying form collides with Lexa’s the burst of wind slams into its ribs and it’s thrown into a tree. Lexa knows not to waste the unexpected help and rushes for the Direwolf before it can recover. Clarke watches as Lexa jumps onto its back, and with a snarl on her lips she wraps her hands around its head and gives one hard twist.

The snap echoes like a bang through the empty clearing.

The Direwolf’s body abruptly collapses to the ground. Lexa rolls off in time to stagger on her feet, her breathing hard and fast as she stares at the now dead beast. Clarke would have gone over to her to check if she’s all right, but the wave of sudden exhaustion hits her like a brick wall and she sways on her already shaky feet. She’s lucky for the tree that sits only a couple paces behind her, as she gratefully lets her side slump into the trunk.

She’s barely keeping her eyes open when Lexa is suddenly in front of her, gentle hands cradling her cheeks and forcing her to look her in the eye. It’s obvious the worry and fear in her gaze.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks, her voice just on the verge of panic.

Clarke finds herself laughing without mirth. “Sure, I’m fine,” she breathes, her body slowly sinking more and more into the tree to help hold her up. “Just got my leg nearly ripped of by a fucking Direwolf, really I’m just peachy.”

Lexa sucks in a sharp breath, and Clarke can’t help but let herself look over Lexa now, especially when their faces are so close. “Are _you_ okay?” Clarke asks, her eyes scanning the blood on Lexa’s face and feeling relieved that it’s red and not black.

“You are what matters,” Lexa mutters, and before Clarke can protest to such a statement she finds her arm suddenly being guided over Lexa’s shoulder. While normally Clarke would rather walk across scalding hot coals than accept help, she knows without out it she’ll probably collapse, so she lets Lexa help carry her. “Come, there is a cave just up there where you can rest.”

Even if exhaustion—which Clarke knows is mostly from the burst of magic she’d used for Lexa—is still a present thing that tries to slur her words, she manages to speak her disagreement. “We can’t, that has to be the wolves’ den. We must have stumbled on their territory.”

But Lexa just shakes her head. Their pace is slow as Clarke limps and Lexa helps share her weight. “You need not worry about the wolves.”

Clarke frowns. “Lexa, they’ll kill—“

“I have slain them. We are safe.”

Clarke blinks at her, her jaw dropping. “You what?” she breathes. She trips on her feet as they begin up a slight incline to the den, and Clarke hears Lexa’s grunt when Clarke’s footing slips and she’s forced to hold her back up.

“It is fine,” Lexa breathes, and like Clarke she seems to still be panting hard from the fight. Though Clarke’s starting to wonder just how much fighting Lexa has actually done. Lexa lets out a wry chuckle. “I, unlike you, did not have to face a Direwolf.”

Clarke grunts as they finally make it up the slope and she’s able to collapse against the cave wall. Her eyes briefly scan the den, and though there’s a pile teeth-marked bones there’s no other wolves, and so Clarke lets herself trust Lexa’s word that they are safe.

“Yeah,” Clarke pushes out, slowly letting herself sit on the stone ground. “Stupid myths can’t stay myths.”

Lexa offers an amused smile, but it drops when Clarke’s eyes flutter close, a long breath escaping trough her lips. “Clarke, I need to take care of your leg,” Lexa warns and Clarke just grunts. She feels like she could sleep till the next century. She hears a shaky intake of breath. “I need you to remove your pants so I can clean the wound.”

Clarke chuckles though her eyes remained closed. “Could at least buy me a drink first,” she mumbles, and she knows if her eyes were open she’d be getting a glare.

“Clarke.” Lexa warns, though in the end her voice grows shaky and hesitant. “May I?”

It’s with great effort does Clarke force her eyes open. She’s so tired her head is practically lolling to the side. “We don’t have our gear,” Clarke says, trying to fight through the haze in her brain. “It’s with the horses.”

“The horses are safe and near. After the I took care of the wolves I went after them.” She lets out a shaky breath. “Your leg needs care, Clarke.”

Clarke blinks at the woman before her, the _warrior_ before her, and she’s suddenly extremely glad Lexa isn’t her enemy. “Yeah, okay,” Clarke sighs, and only once Clarke gives Lexa a nod of permission does Lexa finally lean forward. She helps remove her pants and while normally Clarke would have been much more focused on the burn of contact from Lexa’s fingers brushing her skin, her eyes screw shut and she hisses with a curse as her pants move over her leg wound.

“ _Fiya_ ,” Lexa offers quietly, and Clarke merely swears again. She grabs her thigh with a death grip.

“Fucking Direwolf. If I survive this we’re keeping that bastard as a trophy.” Clarke snarls under her breath and she’s rewarded with Lexa’s smile. It’s probably the widest one she’s ever seen too.

“I’m sure you will impress many,” she says, and there’s a light that dances in her eyes as she looks up at her.

Clarke has to swallow heavily at the sight of it.

The smile slowly slips from Lexa’s face. “Wait here, I shall return quickly with our supplies.”

As Lexa stands up, pausing and glancing around the cave in what Clarke thinks is a double check that there _is_ in fact no danger, Clarke snorts despite the pain that burns like a bushfire at her leg. “Yeah, I’ll hold off on the urge to run out while you’re gone,” Clarke jokes, and Lexa simply rolls her eyes before she quickly slips out of the den. Clarke lets her head fall into the stone behind her. “I’m so fucked.” She whispers, quiet enough that Lexa won’t hear.

She’s not just talking about the injury.

-

When Lexa returns Clarke is barely keeping herself awake.

At the sound of footsteps she forces herself to open her eyes, some ingrained part of her always in need to have constant awareness of her surroundings. Her shoulders relax once she sees Lexa crouch back by her, a water canteen in her hands and a bag in the other that she places on the ground. She pulls out a white cloth from the bag, but her hands freeze over her leg, those hesitant eyes flicking up to her.

Clarke nods her permission, understanding without words what Lexa is asking. Lexa pauses however, putting the canteen down and instead pulling out a stick, which she hands over to her. Clarke knows what it is and gratefully takes it. She adjusts it in her mouth and between her teeth, sucks a shuddering breath in preparation for the pain to come. Lexa carefully pours some water over the wound and Clarke fights off the urge to scream. Instead she bites hard enough for the stick to bend, her breathing coming out in sharp bursts through her nose and her hands probably gripping tight enough to cut off her blood circulation at her thigh.

Lexa is gentle as she cleans her wound.

Clarke shouldn’t be surprised. It’s reminding her greatly of just a few days ago, when she had made the blood oath to her. The care that Lexa took to wrap her hand then is replicated here, the soft and careful movements, the quiet attention that makes Clarke feel a worrying amount of comfort. There are pained tears that escape without noticing by the time Lexa is spreading a medicinal paste in the ripped flesh and coaxing her to bend her knee, continuing the gentle pace of wrapping the bandage around the injury.

By the time she’s done the sun is gone from the sky. Clarke can barely see Lexa in the lack of light, and far more can she barely keep her eyes open—yet something keeps her awake. Somehow she doesn’t fall asleep when Lexa quietly slips off once she’s done tending to Clarke’s leg, telling her how she was going to quickly gather some firewood. Clarke’s warning and protests do nothing to stop her. In the end Clarke can only huff and glare at her retreating form.

She doesn’t know what keeps her awake. Except she does, she just refuses to admit it. She can’t sleep until she knows that Lexa will be safe as well or at the very least close to her. Even if her eyes droop and her head is limp as it rests against the cave wall, she doesn’t sleep, she doesn’t close her eyes, but instead keeps her gaze steady out the cave as she watches night descend. Despite nearly dying, Clarke will admit that the stars are gorgeous here.

Lexa arrives soon after. Clarke watches her silently as she assembles a fire and gets it going, and the efficiency with which she does tells Clarke that while Lexa may live in a tower she has definitely spent many nights in the wilds. There is ease to Lexa’s movements that gives it away. When the fire is up and going, Lexa pulling out two rolls of furs and laying them out near each other, Clarke finally finds the energy to speak. Which considering her exhaustion right now should require a medal.

“Thank you,” Clarke murmurs, and she watches as Lexa pauses while she spreads out the last roll. She glances at her, clenching her jaw before continuing with her task. Clarke sighs. “You didn’t have to save me.”

Lexa is quiet a while before she replies. Clarke almost gives up on the possibility of conversation until she finds a soft voice catching her attention. “If I were to let you perish, who would steal jewelry for me?”

Clarke lets out a quiet chuckle at the joke, more surprised that Lexa is even capable of _making_ jokes. “Funny one aren’t you? Is this the secret of the mighty Heda, your humour?” she teases and she’s rewarded with Lexa’s huff.

“Perhaps you are right.” She glares at her through the flames. “I shouldn’t have intervened.”

Clarke grins wide. “Nah, I don’t think so.” Her eyes glow in their mischief. “ _I_ think you’re starting to like me.”

Lexa scoffs as she makes her way over. She sits next to her, and Clarke doesn’t comment on the closeness or casualness of it. “You are a thief,” she mutters, turning and narrowing her eyes at her. “A criminal.”

“And yet, here we are.” Clarke enjoys Lexa’s glare. “Who knew you had soft spot for thieves huh?”

“I do not.” Lexa huffs. The necklace that Clarke had stolen for her glints in the glow of the fire, the jade stone glimmering with orange.

Clarke smirks at her but refrains from commenting and instead aims her gaze at the fire. She senses Lexa soon joining her. Clarke blinks slowly as she watches the dance of the flames, a recovered fur now wrapped around her shoulders to help with the lack of warmth. The cold is freezing her, and despite her closeness to the fire she still shivers. Clarke can see that Lexa notices out of the corner of her eye, so before she can no doubt offer something Clarke cuts her off.

“Who is the boy?” she asks.

Lexa stiffens. But soon she’s sighing, her gaze staying on the fire. The sparks and flickers of the flames reflect in the green of her eyes. “His name is Aden.” She mutters quietly. Clarke is actually quite surprised to have gotten an answer and was wholly expecting to be brushed off. “He is… he is family to me. Though he would never admit,” Lexa smiles then, but the sadness it holds is enough to crush entire worlds, “he is to be the next Heda, when I pass.”

“Is that why Nia took him?” Clarke questions, keeping her voice gentle, far too scared to endanger this sudden openness that Lexa is giving her.

“It is one of the reasons.” Lexa answers, her voice so quiet Clarke has to strain her hearing. “She also knows how much…. She knows I care for him. That there are few things I wouldn’t do for him. I believe she has taken him in either hopes of blackmail, in which she will hold him prisoner, or she simply wishes to kill him in hopes it destroys me.”

“Would it?”

Lexa’s eyes turn to meet hers then, and Clarke swallows at the penetrating gaze.

Clarke forces herself to take a breath. “Would it destroy you?”

Lexa’s gaze flickers down to the ground. “Perhaps,” she admits, but the magnitude of the admittance warrants a much larger sound, something like an earthquake or an avalanche. The type of words that fall from Lexa’s lips now are earth shattering.

But Clarke is quick to pick up the pieces and attempt to rebuild the ground for her to stand on. “Tell me, what’s he like?” she asks, because she knows it pointless to make promises of his wellbeing. To assure that he is fine, he _will_ be fine, that he is safe and unarmed. Because they do not know, and they won’t till they find him. Whether he is dead or alive.

The change of direction seems to work though, because a small smile tilts Lexa’s lips. “He is stubborn, far kinder than many I’ve met. Anya says he is too much like me. While she says it as a insult, he has always taken it as a compliment.” She lets out a shaky breath as she brings her sight back to the fire, tilting her head up to the roof of the cave. “It is my duty to train him. Once I had him running through fields while I shot arrows at him.”

Clarke can’t help her surprised laugh. “Seriously?”

The softest of grins is her response. “Yes, I believe he still holds resentment for it. He almost made the field actually, but right at the end he slipped on manure.” Lexa shakes her head as if it is aimed at him. “He still has a scar on his right arm from where my arrow grazed him.”

“How old is he now?” Clarke asks and the grin turns sad once more.

“He is just approaching thirteen summers.” Clarke watches Lexa’s throat bob as she swallows. “His birthday is tomorrow.”

Clarke blows out a long breath, and though she tries to stop it a yawn breaks free of her. At it Lexa lets out a small sigh before she gets up to her feet offering a hand to her. Clarke only hesitates a beat before she gives in and takes the offered hand, carefully sliding her grip into Lexa’s and letting her help in pulling her up. Clarke grits her teeth when she accidently puts her weight on her injured side and a painful twinge grips her leg, but Lexa is patient and gentle as she aids her over to her furs, carefully guiding her back down.

Clarke pulls herself under the furs as Lexa goes over to stoke the fire, but even with the warmth of the furs and flames she still shivers in the open night’s cold. She bites her lip, wondering if she can just grit her teeth and take it, but she’s already suffering enough with the pain at her leg and she’s far too exhausted to endure additional damage.

As Lexa prepares to go under her furs Clarke calls out her name, gathering her attention. “We’ll freeze during the night with weather like this,” Clarke warns, and she has to swallow the rock in her throat to continue her sentence. “Come under here.”

Lexa blinks at her. Her jaw opens than closes, and while she does glance between her furs and Clarke’s, eventually she seems to give in, as she gets to her feet and cautiously makes her way over. When she’s near she crouches down, but she doesn’t get under with her just yet.

It’s obvious of the question in her eye as Lexa looks at her and Clarke simply gives her a nod. Lexa seems to grind her teeth, but all too suddenly she’s shedding off her bloodied armour and joining her. The blood at her face is gone too, had been cleaned by Lexa from before, and Clarke shuffles a bit so that they can fit under. Lexa actually pulls away slightly, but before Clarke can comment she realises it’s so Lexa can reach for her furs and bring to Clarke’s so their pile is thicker.

They adjust themselves in an attempt to give each other space, but there’s no point really as they’re still so close that their noses almost touch.

“You are comfortable?” Lexa asks her quietly, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the low tweeting of midnight birds.

“As one can be with a mauled leg.” Clarke replies, and the tension that had snuck in between them eases slightly at the humour.

Lexa narrows her eyes at her to which Clarke merely grins.

“You are strange _Klark kom Skaikru_ ,” she mutters, and Clarke would have offered a witty retort but the way that Lexa pronounces her name has a shiver running down her spine. Lexa frowns slightly at her. “You are still cold?”

Clarke is glad the cover of darkness hides her blush. “Uh, no I—“

“Turn around.” Lexa says, and though Clarke raises a brow, she swallows and does as told. She pretends her heart isn’t pounding in trepidation of what Lexa is going to do, and she doesn’t know if she’s relieved or terrified when she suddenly finds an arm being slid around her waist and a body of warmth being pushed against her back. Despite Clarke’s fear of what Lexa is doing, the warmth is still greatly needed and she sinks into her without realising.

Lexa is flush against her and though the rational part of her, her brain desperately throws warnings at her of just how dangerous this is; she finds herself ignoring the cautions with ease. Instead she closes her eyes and releases a content sigh, snuggling up further to the warmth behind her. She can sense Lexa’s breath tickling the back of her neck, and if she feels Lexa let out a content breath as well, Clarke makes no comment.

And when Clarke sleeps, for once she doesn’t have nightmares.

She pretends it means nothing.

-

She wakes up with something tickling her nose.

Clarke scrunches her face slightly, her mind still thick with sleep as she groans quietly. Whatever time it is, it’s too early, and if she were more awake she’d probably have the energy to be mad at whatever has waken her. She groggily blinks her eyes open, lifting a tired hand and brushing away whatever is in her face.

It’s hair, which usually is unsurprising, but this hair feels thicker than her own and has Clarke opening her eyes more. It’s then that she realises that she’s on her side and snuggled into the body of the warmth next to her, her nose tucked into Lexa’s neck.

_Lexa._

Her eyes bulge once she pieces together the position she’s now found herself in. Lexa’s on her back and Clarke is nuzzled into her side like a koala, and it’s intoxicating just how close Clarke is to Lexa’s neck right now, and easy it’d be to just lean that little ways forward. Clarke swallows the lump in her throat, but the sudden tension that runs through her body must be a little too obvious because soon Lexa is unexpectedly taking a long breath in and waking up.

Lexa’s eyes blink open slow, and she seems to take a little longer to realise what position they’re in. While Clarke knows that _logically_ she should be extracting herself by now, pulling back her arm from where it had somehow snuck over Lexa’s waist, she instead stays still and relishes in the sight of Lexa coming to the surface. Because she’s so soft, so peaceful in these delicate breaths. No war paint on her eyes, no hard clench in her jaw; it’s almost liking seeing an entirely different person.

Lexa is frowning slightly when she finally turns her head to the side and suddenly her and Lexa are face to face. It’s a tad awkward an angle for Lexa, having to look down slightly, but so close Clarke can count Lexa’s eyelashes and practically feel her breath on her lips. The tension is quick to set in the air, but it’s different, so much different than what it usually is.

It reminds her of magic. The build of it, both warm and burning, like a streak of lightening. She can nearly hear the buzz in her ear from the intensity of it, and the longer their stare holds the more intense it becomes, the more Clarke’s eyes trails down to the lips that are just _so_ goddamn close.

“We should get ready,” Lexa whispers, and Clarke wets her lips.

“Yeah, probably,” she murmurs.

She could do it. That tension is urging her too. She can feel how Lexa’s gaze has switched off her eyes too, maybe even is glued to her lips as well. It would be so easy, in this moment, to just fuck everything to hell if only for a sliver of her own happiness. But while Clarke loves to think that she could do that, she can’t. Not now, and maybe, not ever.

So she sighs. And it’s a pained one, the emotions that it holds is enough to fill a hundred-page book. Lexa must somehow read what’s in the sound though, because soon she is echoing it, and having to swallow the desert in her throat Clarke tears her gaze off Lexa’s lips and pulls away.

She clears her throat, and just as she tries to sit herself up a wave of dizziness hits her and her hand is jerking out to the furs below to support her. Clarke lets out a quiet curse at the exhaustion that drags her bones, has to shut her eyes to try and stop the spinning, anchor herself to the ground.

“Clarke?” she hears Lexa ask, the concern clear in her voice.

“I’m fine,” Clarke breathes, but she’s lying, as the strength in her arm is waning just from the effort of holding her up. Her elbow begins to shake and it’s the only warning she has till suddenly it gives up and she’s falling back into the furs.

But Lexa must have sat up with her because strong hands catch her before she can fall. Clarke swears, again, cursing her stupid goddamn body for betraying her. And it _really_ doesn’t help that she’s practically wrapped up in Lexa’s arms now, leaning on her chest.

“What is wrong?” Lexa questions and her voice tiptoes with the edge of panic.

Clarke blows out a breath. She forces her eyes open. “Consequences,” she grumbles, because she knows exactly the cause of this intense exhaustion that logically she shouldn’t feel. But she doesn’t have the _time_ to experience it, can’t waste the hours sleeping it off to regain what she’d lost. With a growl that’s mostly aimed at herself she heaves forward and up onto her feet. Instantly she’s swaying and feeling a jolt of pain from her leg, but Clarke ignores it in favour of slumping against the cave wall. At least this time she doesn’t fall.

Lexa is almost instantly in front of her, and Clarke watches with a hungry gaze of the exposed skin she’d missed from last night. The fire is also long dead, so the cold is quick to make its presence known, Clarke staring at the hairs that rise on Lexa’s bare arms.

“What are you talking about, Clarke?” Lexa asks, and finally Clarke locks eyes with her. Exhaustion makes it near painful to lift her head but she fights against it.

Clarke lets out a soft groan. “I’m not well versed in using my magic in battle,” she mutters, and at Lexa’s continued frown she keeps going. “I’m not used to using such large bursts. Yesterday…” her body falls a little more into the cave wall, “When you fought the Direwolf, I used the very last of my reserves. I’m fine, I am, just exhausted.”

Lexa opens her mouth then closes it. Clarke knows what she means to say though, even if for some reason Lexa seems reluctant for it. “How much rest will you need?” she says, and though she attempts to hide it Clarke can hear the disappointment in her voice, the worry.

“A few days,” Clarke breathes, valiantly keeping her eyes open. Lexa’s face falls further. It makes Clarke grit her teeth, because she’s about to do something very stupid, if only because the possibility of letting Lexa down hurts way more than it should. “But… there is a way to speed up the process.”

Clarke shoves herself off the wall, stumbling her footing slightly as she tries to right herself. Another jolt of pain shoots up from her injured leg when she accidently leans too much pressure on it, but Clarke simply clenches her jaw and holds stubborn to her resolve, dead set on keeping awake and moving. She limps over to her gear and throws on the thick fur cloak she’d gotten from the market. She breathes in a tired breath in and out, watching it mist in the cold morning air.

“Clarke what are you…?” Lexa’s voice trials off as Clarke determinedly keeps moving, ignoring how she drags her steps and more than once she stumbles with her exhaustion. She staggers out of the cave and somehow gets down the slight inclined without falling—though Clarke suspects that with Lexa’s close proximity of what she can sense as behind her that even if she fell she wouldn’t meet the ground—limping over to the nearest tree and gratefully slumping against it when she finally reaches it.

Leaning most of her weight against the trunk she forces herself to turn her head to the side to look at Lexa, who had trailed after her with a clear air of confusion. “Can I have your dagger? I lost mine with fight with the wolves.” Clarke breathes, her breathing slightly ragged despite the short journey.

Lexa’s brow creases further with its concern but she complies, briefly leaving her side and slipping into the cave, presumably grabbing her gear and returning. When she’s back in front of her Clarke takes the offered dagger with a grateful grin, taking in a reassuring breath and forcing herself to lean off the tree.

“There’s a way to speed up the process,” Clarke starts, sensing Lexa’s expectant gaze. Clarke raises the dagger and digs it into the tough wood. With great effort, her muscles moving far slower than she’d like, she begins to carve into the bark. “But, I will ask that you don’t tell Raven what I’m about to do.” Clarke frowns slightly as she continues marking the oak. “She’ll tear my head off.”

“What are you going to do?”

The unease in Lexa’s voice makes Clarke smile. “I’m going to meditate.” She states simply, perhaps enjoying it a tad too much when Lexa frowns deeply at her.

“You do not wish Raven to know that you… meditate?” Lexa says, clearly at a complete loss. Clarke’s grin widens once she finds she’d finished with carving the mark, letting out a satisfied huff and handing the dagger back to Lexa. The mark is shoddy, but it’s good enough.

It’s a simple shape, a fact that Clarke is relieved for. If it was complex Clarke doubts she’d be able to do it with her lack of energy. It’s the symbol for the Goddess of the Sky, a circle with a line cutting through. It’s the same one that resides at the bar where Raven works. Clarke sees Lexa’s eyes widen at the mark, but she knows it’s not because of the religious aspect the symbol holds, but because of its replication at the bar. There are few who can readily recognise the symbol for what it actually is.

“It isn’t normal meditation,” Clarke smirks, and blinking away another wave of tiredness she lifts her hand, letting it hover the symbol. She bites her lip before she glances to Lexa at her side. “I need you to do me a favour.”

Lexa narrows her eyes. “Which is?”

“When I place my hand over the mark, I need you to call my name once ten minutes have passed. It should bring me back.”

“Back from where?” Lexa questions warily.

Clarke is unable to tame her grin. “Meditation. I should come out of it on my own but… there’s a chance I won’t. I can’t risk it. Oh, and if it doesn’t work, if I don’t come back when you call my name,” she loses her smile then. “Then I’ll need you to forcibly pull me away. But only if it’s urgent, if there’s danger or you _seriously_ cannot bring me back. Only then will you take my hand off.”

“Why?”

“Because it will hurt me. A lot.” Clarke briefly shudders at past memories. She shakes her head. “Just, promise me, okay? Can you do that?”

Lexa sighs with obvious frustration at Clarke’s vague warnings, and while she does glare at her, she dips her head at her and Clarke releases a relieved breath.

Clarke offers a shaky smile. “Alright. Good.” She tears her stare off Lexa and focuses on the mark carved into the tree. Forcing her shoulders to relax she summons what very little magic is left, letting it pour out of her exposed hand and into the symbol on the tree. It only takes a few tense moments until the mark is suddenly glowing a soft white.

Lexa’s jaw drops in the corner of her eye, but Clarke keeps her focus on the mark, ignoring how her heart thuds relentlessly against her ribcage. “Here goes nothing,” she mutters under her breath, and with nothing left to hold her back, she rests her palm against the mark.

The reaction is instant. A jolt of warmth shoots through her arm and right into her soul, and Clarke’s eyes instinctively draw shut, her entire body going lax, though she keeps herself upright. Her chin falls to her chest slightly, but the movement feels distant, and though normally Clarke always resists the pull that tugs at her now, for once Clarke lets it win. Her mind and heart drift away from her body and follow the connection that flows from her arm to the mark, and soon Clarke finds herself in a different plane, a different state of being.

There’s nothing here. It’s a dangerously blissful state, being able to feel nothing and everything at once, the surest and most secure of connections to the earth. She has no body here, no scars and bruises painted on her skin; no voice, no trembling words and biting anger; no hands coated in blood and no soul weighted down with others; there’s simply nothing.

But at the same time there’s everything. There’s the feeling of the magma hidden deep beneath the earth, the slow sluggish pace of it. There’s the great gusts of winds that have the power to knock down trees and then the gentle breaths that follow the oceans; the singing of the grass and the coldness in the snow.

She surrenders herself to it.

She’s nobody here. Has no name or memories to add stone weights to her chest. And it’s been so long since she’s been here, allowed herself to give in to this nothingness, and why? There’s no pain here, there’s nothing.

There’s _nothing_.

And suddenly she hears it, the something, the thing that isn’t meant to be here. It’s a voice. It’s her name. _Clarke._ It feels like it’s been eons since she’s last heard it, like she’s been in this place for centuries upon centuries. Some part of her knows she should pull back now, but there’s uncertainty that stills her, makes her pause. The feeling of standing above everything, every petty grievance and being, should she leave it? There’s only pain on the ground. It’s safer in the sky.

But it comes again, the soft call. _Clarke, come back._ And it hits her suddenly that she knows that voice, has been growing closer and closer to it ever since she’d first been dragged through those large oak doors. Though she’s loathed to leave this bliss, she can feel her heart already rushing back. Because while there will always be something so enticing about remaining here, the thought of _her_ makes her rethink, crawl back into her body.

It’s the images that do it. The memories, of the wildness in her hair that can only be tamed with intricate braids, the small half tilt to her lips as if a full smile would strike her dead. The glow of her eyes when there’s nothing but a fire as light, the way the flames reflect off the necklace that she had gotten for her, a gesture she’s never once done before.

It is true that it is blissful here, with nothing.

But the thought of losing Lexa makes her drop everything and run.

Clarke’s eyes flutter open as she feels herself gradually rise to the surface. Slowly she feels the retraction of warmth, becomes aware of the nip from the bark against her skin and the coldness of the air that bites where the fur doesn’t cover. She releases a slow breath, and a small smile curves her lips when she doesn’t feel the exhaustion anymore. It’s still there, a little bit at least, after all she had only let herself give in for a short while, but it’s enough to deal and fight with.

Slowly she peels her hand off the mark, watching as the glow of white begins to dim until it disappears completely; the symbol now nothing more than scratches on wood.

Clarke straightens her back and feels grateful for the return in energy. She takes a step back, feels the slight layer of snow dip under her feet, but her attention is suddenly drawn to the side of her when she hears a sharp intake of breath.

It’s Lexa, of course, but Clarke thinks she knows the cause of the action. Clarke flips her hand over so her palm is face up, and she’s not surprised to see what’s on her skin—the replication of the symbol, still glowing a faint soft white.

When Clarke brings her gaze to meet Lexa’s, she watches as Lexa’s throat bobs.

“Thank you,” Clarke murmurs quietly, as it seems like Lexa is still unable to speak. “I… I nearly lost myself there.” Clarke refrains to mention that it was the thought of losing Lexa that brought her back. She decides to focus on it at another time.

Lexa stares at her a small while before giving her a stiff nod. “We must eat then pack up. If we leave soon we should reach the caves before nightfall.” She says, and Clarke gives her a nod, knowing she is right.

Though Lexa turns on her heel, her stare remains on her. Clarke can’t quite tell what’s in her eyes, but it seems to be a blend of awe and wonder, as if Clarke is something that should be looked at with reverence and nothing less. It makes Clarke’s stomach flutter and she has to avert her gaze to fight off the heat rising to her cheeks.

She chances a glance up in time to see Lexa clenching her jaw before turning around and heading up to the den. Clarke releases a shaky breath and follows.

The glowing mark on her palm slowly fades till it’s gone.

-

They eat and pack up fast.

There’s an odd tension that hums between them as they go through the morning routine. Clarke can feel it as she swallows down the spiced dried meat, as she slides on her gear and watches as Lexa does too; she catches the looks that Lexa keeps throwing at her. They’re not bad, not at all really, but still it gives Clarke unease to see the slight awe that Lexa keeps glancing at her with. Like she is the only star in the sky. She’s never been looked at like that, not even by Finn.

It scares her.

Despite it though, Clarke still asks for Lexa’s help. She has to help her with redressing the wound and putting on her pants. Without exhaustion to numb her brain she feels every burning brush of her fingers on her skin as she helps her, and more than once Clarke has to force a shaky breath in futile attempts to calm herself. The pain does help in distracting her from it though. It’s intense and harsh and Clarke bites her lip hard enough to bleed by the time she’s finally done. When she looks down she can see the tears in her pant leg from the Direwolf’s teeth. The gaps in the leather reveal the white bandage underneath.

Soon after they pack the last of their gear Lexa leads her a bit away to the horses. Clarke learns that while she was meditating Lexa had gone and collected them, making sure they were well and fed. Clarke is powerless to suppress her smile as she nears her horse, and it widens when at seeing her the horse releases a happy huff and eagerly lets her hands stroke its head.

“I’m sorry they scared you,” Clarke whispers to the horse, in reference of the wolves. The horse nudges her and Clarke takes that as forgiveness.

She ignores the eyes she gets from Lexa at her words and pulls herself up on the horse.

It hurts her leg, but it’s bearable and she merely grits her teeth. Their gear is all good to go, when she glances over she sees Lexa is on top of her horse too, but just before she can click her tongue and get them going Lexa calls for her to stop.

“ _Hod op_. _Ai na laik snap._ ” She says, quickly slipping off the horse and striding back towards the den. Clarke frowns, but curiosity makes her gently urge her horse’s sides and follow on after her. The horses aren’t far from the cave but Clarke sees that Lexa isn’t going for the den anyway, but instead treads a little further away. Her answer as to why comes in the sound of a loud grunt.

Clarke watches with wide eyes as she sees Lexa dragging the dead Direwolf by its hind leg through the snow.

Clarke doesn’t move from her spot on her horse, and she stares bug eyed at the dragging of the beast across the snow—Lexa’s head glancing to the side to her once, growing what could only be a smirk—before she faces forward and continues lugging the great mythical animal. She hauls it into the cave, and only once Lexa has come back down and is walking past her does Clarke finally grab a hold of herself and urge her horse to turn around. When she’s back by Lexa she sees she’s already upon her horse, that annoyingly attractive smirk on her lips.

“What’d you do that for?” Clarke asks bewildered. “Apart from showing off how freakishly strong you are.”

She knows that Direwolf to be heavier than a boulder. Yet Lexa had dragged it, with only a little amount of difficulty, up the incline and into the cave. Lexa’s smirk widens. Her eyes sparkle.

“You said you wished to make a trophy of the Direwolf.” She casually shrugs at her like she didn’t just effortlessly lug around a fucking Direwolf. “We will not lose it now. Prey know to steer clear of here anyway due to it being the wolves’ territory.” That smirk evolves into a sly grin. “I believe it will make a fine pelt.”

Clarke chokes out a breathless chuckle. “Yeah, you got that fucking right.” Briefly, she feels a phantom pulse of pain from her leg, the memories of the fight with the Direwolf resurfacing. She doubts she will ever forget it. Clarke shakes her head. “Come on, we’ll retrace our steps and continue on to the lake.”

The previous playfulness leaves Lexa’s features and Clarke pretends she doesn’t miss it. “ _Sha_.” she murmurs. She gives her the nod that Clarke is learning to be Lexa’s favourite means of communication.

Clarke swallows at the unwanted emotions clawing up her throat and instead clicks her boots against the horse’s sides.

The tension from before returns.

They’re silent for a long while, only the sounds of the forests gracing her ears. Clarke’s glad for the fur coat that covers her shoulders, allowing her to focus on the beauty of the winter woods and not the biting cold able to tear off limbs. Yet there’s something so inherently magical about forests, the gentle sounds and shine of the sun beaming down at them from above—the protection of the trees’ canopies gone with the coming of winter.

Clarke’s mind is wonderfully blank as she focuses on nothing but the sway of her horse. So it makes her jump when she finds a sudden voice next to her. “What did you mean, from before?” Lexa questions, and Clarke abruptly notices that Lexa’s horse is oddly close to Clarke’s, their legs nearly brushing.

Clarke doesn’t mind.

“What from before?” Clarke asks, tilting her head slightly. She watches the almost frustrated furrow that knots Lexa’s brow. Whatever is on Lexa’s mind, it must be something that has been bothering her for a while.

Lexa clenches her reins tighter before continuing. “You said that you almost lost yourself. And that the meditation was dangerous, that it is different.”

“You saw the glowing mark, you know it’s not the same.”

“Yes, I know,” Lexa says, and more frustration works its way into her voice. “But how? How is it different?”

Clarke blows out a long breath. She tears her gaze off Lexa and looks up into the dark branches of the trees. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you asked,” Clarke mutters, because she shouldn’t, what she shared with Lexa is something that she knows to be exceedingly rare. It’s already rare to even _have_ magic, but to then divulge the intricacies of it; it’s an opportunity that Clarke shouldn’t be surprised has caught Lexa’s attention. If she were in her position she would be acting summarily Clarke thinks.

Lexa waits with a patience that makes Clarke give in.

Slowly her gaze drops to her fingers that fiddle with her reins. “The mark that I carved into the tree, it is the symbol for the Goddess of the Sky.” A minute smile flickers on her lips. “She is a Skaikru God. My people believe that to those she deems worthy she imparts her gift, her control over the sky. The winds.” Her eyes drift up to the clouds above, and she wonders, idly, if the Sky Goddess is watching over her right now.

“The Sky Goddess is daughter to Earth. To create a connection, then, it has to be through nature. It’s why I had to carve the mark into a tree.” She can feel Lexa’s gaze burning into the side of her head. “The meditation… it is embracing it. You leave your body, in a way. Your heart and mind drift up to the Sky.” Clarke’s gaze turns wistful as she stares up at the clouds. “There’s nothing there. You simply become apart of everything. Every blade of glass and every breath of wind.”

“It sounds peaceful,” Lexa offers, and Clarke’s smile turns bitter.

“It is.” Finally, she brings her gaze down, locks sights with Lexa. “And that’s the risk of it. It is rejuvenating; you take in the energy from the Sky into your body. But… there’s dangerous bliss in it. It’s dangerous to do it alone when you don’t have good control, as there are those who start that meditation, but they do not finish. They decide that it is far blissful with no connection to being human, so they stay until her human body gives out on them and they die.”

Clarke sees the understanding dawn in Lexa’s eyes. “That is why you wanted me to call you…”

Clarke takes in a steadying breath. She’s not quite sure why she’s divulging all this information out, but she’s already half in, she may as well go the full way. “When I was younger, I had a bit of a… problem. I suppose you could call it an addiction.” Shame makes her shoulders weigh down. “It’s why I made you promise you wouldn’t tell Raven either. She was there for the worst of times, she’ll kill me if she ever finds out I did it again.”

“Clarke,” Lexa breathes, and at the softness in her tone Clarke can’t keep holding her eyes anymore. She can hear the guilt in her voice. “I would never have made you if I knew.”

“I know.” Clarke mutters. She gives her a shaky grin. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

She hears Lexa’s huff, but before she could begin her no doubt lengthy retort Clarke cuts her off. Her gaze snaps back to meet hers.

“We have no time Lexa. We already wasted enough getting here. It would have taken too long to naturally regain my energy.”

Lexa glares at her, but she doesn’t refute her. Instead her shoulders cave in with a sigh. She shakes her head and turns her sight away from her. “You are far too selfless.” She mutters under her breath. Her eyes narrow. “Stubborn too.”

Clarke can’t help her tug at the lips. “So I've been told.”

Lexa throws her a glare yet it’s far softer than usual. But still, it seems her questions aren’t quite done, not yet. “If I hadn’t of called you,” and she says her words quiet now, as if it’s one of those conversations that can only take place once the moon is the only light. “Would you have stayed there?”

Clarke blinks. She thinks it over slowly. “I don’t think so. I probably would have gotten caught up there for a few days though.”

“Why?” Lexa asks, a small frown in her brow. “You say it is blissful?”

“It is.” Clarke agrees, and her bitter smile returns. “But it is lonely.” She pushes out in a shaky breath. “And I’ve been alone enough.”

There’s too much understanding in Lexa’s eyes as she looks at her.

They soon fall back into their usual silence, but the odd tension from before has retreated now, thankfully. It’s a comfortable air that sits between them as they ride quietly, not able to gallop with the closeness of the trees. Clarke worries for the sound it would cause too. They are nearing where Aden is being held now.

As they continue their travel Clarke’s eyes cautiously flick over to the woman at her side, drinking in the sight of her slouched posture, the lack of tension in her form that had been ever present when she’d first met her. She’s the most relaxed Clarke has ever seen her.

When Clarke swallows it feels like she can’t breathe.

-

“This is it.” Clarke mutters, crouching low within the trees. The snow is cold under her boots.

She hears Lexa’s shaky breath. “We can’t cross the lake. But,” Clarke turns her head in time to see Lexa squint her gaze. “There seems to be a way around. It will be longer,” she raises an arm and points to the path she’s spotted. Clarke follows and sees that they can indeed walk around, and there’s better cover of trees and bushes. “But it will work.”

Clarke nods absently as she stares across the frozen lake.

They’ve made it.

It feels oddly strange to have. After everything, all their fights whether with each other or with bandits or wolves—it all leads to this. Clarke aims for a steadying breath to quell the anxiety that threatens to roll her gut, but it only half works, her skin still feeling like it’s burning. She needs to keep a level head, stay calm. It doesn’t matter how much weight this mission carries. She just has to treat it like any other job. She can’t panic. It is _much_ too late for that.

Clarke nods to herself as she stands up.

This is it.

She feels Lexa stand up with her but Clarke pays her no mind. Clarke retracts from the edges of the trees where her and Lexa had been hiding in, staring across at the frozen lake and to the mouth of a cave on the other side. Normally, the cave wouldn’t mean anything, except at the entrance there are two bandit guards that stand tall, spears in their hands and swords at their sides. Even if the sun is just past setting now and the sky is near black, she can still see them.

Clarke slowly treads over to her horse, which has managed to find a patch of grass free of snow, lazily grazing the green. She approaches the animal, gently stroking its neck without looking while moving over to the saddlebags. She opens them up and digs her hand in. A slow smile curves her lips when she feels the metal graze her fingers.

She pulls out the tin and quickly twists it open, seeing the black paint inside. Clarke reaches up and pulls her hood back. She glances behind her, seeing Lexa to still be watching across the lake, as if her gaze alone will summon Aden to come stumbling out the caves. Clarke ignores the painful twist in her gut and begins her usual ritual for every high-class job. Minus her collection of blades.

Her eyes shutter to a close as she spreads the paint across her skin. It’s practically muscle memory of the direction of the strokes: around the eye, over the eyelid, arch to near the ear and then down. When she’s done the paint feels cool against her skin and it’s a reassuringly familiar feeling. She knows it at least, has felt it hundreds times before. It gives her something to anchor herself on.

When Clarke pulls in a deep breath she finds it no longer shakes.

As she walks back over to Lexa she pulls her hood down, tucking her hair back so it can’t get in her face and give away anything for her identity. Lexa senses her approach, and she must sense the purpose in her stride too, because instinctively she’s standing up and turning to her with an expectant gaze. Clarke knows when she’s spotted her war paint as Clarke notices her throat bob. Clarke stops when she’s next to her and she already knows this will not go easy. But she also knows it is necessary, so Clarke mentally rallies herself for the inevitable fight that’s about to break out.

“I will meet you back here. Keep the horses out of sight, make sure you make no noise or light.” Clarke says, deciding she may as well just cut to the chase.

As expected Lexa grinds her teeth. “You are not going alone.”

Clarke sighs. Even if she expected this it still frustrates her. “We’ve had this argument before Lexa.” Clarke mutters. She narrows her eyes. “But it is different this time. If we go in together we’ll get discovered. While I know you are a far superior fighter… you are not when it comes to stealth.” Lexa’s mouth opens in what Clarke knows to be a responding argument, so she quickly raises a hand to stop her. Incredibly it actually works. Though Lexa’s glare is burning enough to melt steel. “You cannot do this Lexa. Only I can.”

“It will be _swarming_ with Pike’s men Clarke,” Lexa hisses. “It is far too dangerous—“

“This is why you made me yours.” Clarke cuts off with a growl. She forces a steadying breath and it mists in the air between them. “Let me do this. Alone. I swear to you that I will give you Aden.”

Lexa looks about one breath away from running her sword through her, but thankfully, though her jaw is clenched she remains silent.

Clarke holds her gaze; close enough now that she can see the flecks in Lexa’s eyes. “Trust me. We’ve come this far, don’t ruin it now.” She swallows the rock in her throat. “Just trust me, Lexa.”

She knows she’s won when Lexa’s shoulders sag. But still, she tries. The fact alone that she does makes Clarke’s heart ache. “You cannot die.” She says, and when Lexa blinks suddenly Clarke makes no comment. “Do you understand?”

Clarke lets through a shaky laugh. “What, you’ve realised your soft spot for thieves Heda?” she jokes, because the air is too tense, too serious. Too real.

Lexa doesn’t laugh.

Clarke loses her smile.

“Promise me.” Lexa whispers.

Clarke tries to take in a breath and finds she can’t. “Aden will be returned to you.” She swears, and Clarke ignores when Lexa blinks at her, the fear and worry that bursts in her eyes. Instead Clarke leans back, reaches for her collar and pulls up the fabric bunched there. She pulls it up and covers her mouth so the only skin shown is her eyes. And she can practically hear it just through Lexa’s gaze alone. The ‘ _that’s not what I asked you._ ’

But Clarke ignores it. She ignores it all.

So without looking back Clarke turns around and walks away.

-

She’s invisible against the night.

In the shadows, she’s practically apart of them. She’s in her full gear, all black and perfect for what she’s about to do. The only free bit of skin shown is the slit for her eyes, but even that is dark, as the paint hides the pink. All it leaves is the burning fire of her blue eyes.

She’s nothing.

It takes a painful amount of time to sneak around the lake. She’s even half tempted to risk hiking the frozen lake itself—the ice looks _relatively_ stable, mostly—but patience is something that, when needed, she can have a lot of. There’s no choice anyway, not in this. She’d get spotted in a heartbeat if she braved walking the lake. So Clarke simply lets through a long sigh through her nose, her steps feather light against the ground below her. There’s a thin layer of snow that helps to soften her pace as well.

Clarke slows as she approaches the cave mouth. She stays in her crouch, still undetectable within the dark, and her eyes are sharp as she creeps up to the outer edge of the stone cave wall. It gives her a little nook she can lay her back against. There’s a path of long grass that rides up to just above her knees, but Clarke pays no mind and instead wholly focuses on the two guards that are now only a few metres away. She leans out just enough to peek at them.

They’re both men and their muscles are thick with obvious promises of pain. One has a red bandanna covering his mouth, but Clarke suspects it’s more due to the cold than anything, and she thinks the other one would have too except he’s graced with a great black beard which seems to prove warmth enough. They’re standing near, but it’s not by much, as still they’re spread at the two corners of the mouth to the cave. Which means if she can get one far enough way, she’d be able to take one of them out.

The Gods seem to be on her side for once—perhaps they’ve began to feel bad for all the times they have fucked her over—because Bandanna is flicking a gold coin up and down. It’s a rhythmic place, the coin spinning as it rises in the air before it lands back in Bandanna’s gloved fingers, his hand dipping with momentum just as he flicks it up again. Beard doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to him, but Clarke does catch the eagerness that enters his dark eyes when Bandanna almost drops it.

Clarke raises her hand slow.

She’s donned her black fingerless gloves, and though the cold nips at the exposed skin where the leather doesn’t cover, it doesn’t stop her when Clarke narrows her eyes and focuses on the coin. She waits till Bandanna has the coin up in the air before she feels the rush of warmth in her arm and pushes out a burst of wind.

She keeps it gentle and wide enough that it can be played off as a normal gust of wind, makes sure it ruffles the hair of Beard, but strong enough that when it hits the coin midair it carries it and throws it to the side. The coin gets lost into the darkness. There’s warm light that comes out of the cave, presumably from torches encrusted inside, and Bandanna lets out a sharp curse when the coin leaves the lights gaze.

Beard snorts at him. “Nice going.” He snickers and Bandanna throws a glare at him.

“Fuck you. It was the wind.” He snaps.

But his defensiveness only seems to amuse Beard more. “I’m sure it was,” he drawls. He ignores Bandanna’s finger. “Has nothing to do with you at all.”

“Fucking twit.” Bandanna snarls under his breath. He lets out a frustrated huff, grumbling angrily as he grips his spear with his other hand and stomps off in the direction of where the coin had flown. “With Pike gone who knows if we’re even getting paid? I’m not losing that damn gold.”

Clarke waits until the darkness engulfs his body, and only then, once Beard is looking off in Bandanna’s direction with a smirk, does she finally move. She straightens her spine as she approaches Beard from behind, slides Lexa’s knife into her palm. The moment she’s behind him she lunges forward and slams her hand over his mouth, twisting his head and instantly driving the blade into his sternum, piercing his heart. She feels Beard slump against her a few seconds later and quickly she’s dragging him back to the nook and gently laying his body down in the tall grass. His spear is lost to his grip as she does, and it sways a moment before it falls to the ground. The snow only softens the sound so much and Clarke winces.

She’s about to jump back out to finish the other when she hears Bandanna call out for Beard, his voice unsure.

“Keeva? What was that?” he questions, and Clarke pauses, carefully extracting the knife from the bandit’s chest. She hears the approach of Bandanna’s cautious footsteps and forces a breath in hopes to steady her racing heart. Her back is pressed tight against the stone, and she gives it a couple more seconds, knowing it is safer to wait till he’s closer, before she jumps out and lurches for him.

Thankfully she catches him by surprise and he freezes for a precious heartbeat. She doesn’t waste it and latches onto his chest, bending her knees and throwing him over her shoulder so he slams back first into the ground. She moves with the throw and before Bandanna can recover from the surprise attack she smothers his mouth and slits his throat. She leans back to avoid the spray of blood. His only sounds are muffled gurgled gasps, until a moment passes, and there’s nothing.

She drags his body back with the other, rolling him onto his side and leaning him against Beard. Though she pauses just after his eyes fall close, feeling the blood on her hands and the specks that had sprayed onto her masked cheek, she doesn’t feel guilt for them. Not enough to be concerned about anyway. They are still Pike’s men, the select few chosen to guard such a high value target. Clarke can tell that these would be Pike’s favourites. The sickest of the sick.

So while she does send a small prayer like always for their souls to find peace, she doesn’t give the bodies a backward glance.

She’s named Wanheda for a reason after all.

Her knees are in a crouch as she peeks into the cave. At seeing the wide mouth quickly lead into a narrower arch Clarke releases a relieved breath and moves in. Except she stops, spins back around and returns to the bodies, cursing her adrenaline filled brain at forgetting. She’s getting too caught up in the stress of mission to miss things like this. She goes for Beard’s body because there’s less blood and quickly searches him. Her shoulders slack when she finds what she’s looking for.

Clarke takes the two extra blades, throwing knives by the shape of it, and slips them into the subtle holster at her thigh. It’ll do. On fast steps she reenters the cave and slowly moves through the narrower entrance. She doesn’t hear voices drifting up, but it is far late now and she knows some will be asleep. Clarke’s not too surprised as she silently treads through the path—the stone is tight enough that it nearly grazes her elbow—that she stumbles upon an impromptu metal gate. Locked too. She pauses, glancing through the thin gaps in the gate to see a large cavern. Torches line the sides but she doesn’t see anyone in the open yet.

It only takes a few seconds to unlock the gate, slowly wiping her hand through the air, and with a held breath Clarke gingerly pushes it open. At first it lets out a strained creak and she freezes. But no one comes out, so with even more careful efforts, she continues to push it open.

She sneaks through the moment there’s enough space to slide past.

There’s a natural stone ramp to her right, it leads up to a rock platform that would be ideal for archers. To her left she sees a mouth a tunnel, thinner and presumably a path to deeper within the caves. It’s not the only one either, Clarke can see three just from this spot alone. She grinds her teeth.

She has to find the one that leads to Aden.

Clarke slides between cover to cover as she explores. First she goes up the ramp, hugging the wall as tight as she can, and when she reaches the top she’s not too surprised to see a bandit there. There’s another one next to him, but she’s asleep and lying in her bedroll. The awake one looks about one blink away from sleep too. Clarke’s eyes flick around, analysing the area for anything she can use. She clenches her jaw at finding nothing.

She needn’t have bothered though. The bandit’s eyes are drooping now, and he’s leaning more and more weight on the cave wall behind him. Clarke decides to help him out a bit, calling the smallest ounce of wind to gently ease him back, offer a subtle support to the back of his head. She’s relieved to find it works and he finally slumps against the wall.

She leaves her hiding spot now that they’re both unconscious and moves towards them. Briefly she pauses by them, fingering the dagger in her palm, but there’s no point in killing them. It’s too risky.

As she moves past the bandits never know the fate they just escaped.

It takes her longer than she’d liked to find some type of indicator of where to go. Eventually, as she cautiously trails across the stone platform she spies a streak of black blood on the ground near a metal gate identical to the one at the entrance. Clarke narrows her eyes at it. None of the other paths to lead deeper into the cave has a gate at its tunnel. There’s also another bandit that stands near it, a dozing dog a couple metres away. She notices that he stands near the entryway of a makeshift tent barracks.

She retraces her steps enough so she’s out of immediate sight and quietly eases her way down. When she slips in through the tent she finds it to be a quarters of some sort, three bandits lying fast asleep. Clarke moves past and doesn’t wake them. She slows her pace however when she spots the guarding bandit’s back.

Her spine rises as she reveals her bloodied knife and flexes her fingers.

It’s with a dangerous calmness in her veins does she smother his mouth and drive the blade at the base of his skull and upwards. He freezes before dropping like a sack of potatoes and she catches him, gently easing to him ground soundlessly and easing him back so he’s out of the way. She lays him next to his sleeping companions. It’s a little disturbing how he almost looks like he’s asleep as well.

Apart from his lack of rising chest.

Clarke takes a step and hisses at the abrupt twitch of pain from her leg. Adrenaline and necessity have kept the pain mostly at bay, but the repeated use she’s had to do is beginning to take its toll on her. Still, she merely grits her teeth, retrieving her blade and continuing on.

The dog is still asleep, but for good measure she spreads out her free hand and feels the warmth, keeping a gentle breeze that should keep her scent out of its immediate range. She knows it won’t work completely though and quickly approaches the metal gate, unlocking it and slipping through.

The tunnel is narrow and extends for a surprising amount of time. It’s tight enough that there are no torches and instead Clarke has to rely on keeping one hand on the wall to guide her through. Though her nerves begin to rise as the seconds push on, relief is like a tidal wave when she hears sudden voices drift up towards her. The most relieving being the notably higher voice of a boy that’s just at the verge of puberty.

“You will pay dearly for this,” the younger voice—Aden presumably—snarls with an impressive amount of venom for a thirteen year old. A deep voice chuckles roughly in reply.

“Sure kid.”

She catches a frustrated huff. “You just wait. Heda will come. And she will destroy you _all_.”

“Heda will come, is that so?” the deeper voice mocks, and Clarke can imagine that Aden is probably puffing out his chest at him. From the way it sounded from Lexa the kid idolises her. Clarke very much doubts he’d let an insult at Lexa pass. “You think the mighty Heda would risk to go after you herself?” he lets out a bark of a laugh. “Get comfortable kid. ‘Heda’ would never risk her reputation for you.”

Clarke sheathes her dagger and palms the two throwing knives. She finally emerges out of the tunnel and into another cavern, but this one is far smaller than the main. Half of the space is taken up by a wall of metal bars that have been nailed across to create a makeshift cell. Thankfully the bandit is facing the boy, probably so he can watch his reactions to his insults. Clarke rises and pulls the mask at her mouth down.

“You’re right, she wouldn’t risk herself.” Clarke smirks and the bandit hastily spins around. “But she’d risk someone else.”

Just as his jaw opens to alert the others Clarke bares her teeth and flings the knife. Warmth rushes through her arm with the throw and adds the power it needs to pierce through the bandit’s leather and into his heart. Shock cuts his shout from forming but she can’t risk it and throws the other so that it lands into his neck and ceases his ability to call out. His eyes roll into the back of his head before he collapses to the ground.

As he falls he reveals the wide-eyed boy that stands behind him.

Clarke releases a slightly shaky breath. She glances around, but there’s nothing in here but the boy’s cell and Aden himself. Ignoring Aden’s dropped jaw she kneels by the bandit’s body and extracts her knives. Once they’re back in their place she searches his body for a key, and Aden seems to finally find his voice then.

“Who are you?” he croaks, and Clarke lets herself smile as she peers up at him. She lets out a huff and sits up so she’s balancing on the soles of her feet.

She reaches up and unveils her hood, revealing the blonde curls underneath. Aden’s eyes widen impossibly more. “I’m Clarke.” She raises a brow. “I’ve been sent here to rescue you.”

Even if it’s clear that Aden is both a mix of confused and terrified, maybe even a little awed, his face hardens and he steps back. “Who sent you?”

“As I told our friend here,” she gestures to the dead body at her feet. “Lexa sent me.”

Now Aden’s eyes narrow. Clarke ignores it.

She stands up and uses the key she’d found and unlocks his cell door. It lets out a small screech as it opens, but Clarke thinks they’re away enough that no one should hear. Hopefully. Clarke steps back in assumption that Aden will come out, but she frowns when Aden doesn’t, and instead he actually retreats further into his cell.

“What are you doing? Let’s go. She’s waiting for you.”

But Aden just hardens his gaze. It shocks her a little how much it reminds her of Lexa. “No. How do I know Heda sent you? This could be a trap to lead me away to Nia.”

Clarke closes her eyes and sighs. Great. He’s a carbon copy of Lexa. When she opens her eyes she glares, but it softens when she sees the rips and tears in the boy’s black clothes. She can even see a bit of smeared black blood on his arm. The sleeve on his right is completely ripped off.

“We don’t have time for this Aden.” Clarke mutters, because they really don’t. The guards could wake up at any moment and realise whose gone. “We need to move, _now._ ”

Yet Aden, as Lexa had warned, is stubborn. He crosses his arms. “No. Not till I know that Heda really sent you.”

Clarke has the fleeting thought that maybe it’d be more efficient to knock him out and sling him over her shoulder like a sack. But Lexa would probably kill her if she did that, so reluctantly she refrains from the desire. “Aden. My life is tied with yours. Lexa is waiting,” and she points outwards, in some general direction of where Lexa should be hiding within the trees, “and if you do not come with me right now—“

“No.”

“Gods fucking—Okay. Okay, you want proof Lexa sent me?” Clarke steps into his cell and instantly he backs up, fear briefly flicking across his face. She sighs at that and softens her stance, her voice, kneeling down so she’s near eye level with him. “You’re Aden. You’ve just turned thirteen, today is your birthday.” He blinks at her but Clarke continues, her eyes zeroing in on the old scar on his right arm. “There’s a scar on your right arm from training with Lexa. She was firing arrows at you, you slipped in manure and you’re still angry at her about it.”

“How do you know that?” He stammers, a painful blend of worry and hope in his voice.

And Clarke simply smiles. “Because Lexa sent me for you.”

He stares at her. She watches as he bites his lip, and Clarke knows they don’t have time for this, they _need_ to get the fuck out, but she knows it pointless to force him to hurry up. She resists the urge to nervously tap her fingers against her thigh. It takes what feels like a millennium, but, eventually, his shoulders go slack and he brings his arms to his side.

“Okay. I believe you.” He mumbles, and Clarke heaves a breath of relief.

“Good. Let’s go. _Now_.”

This time he listens and follows her as she leaves his cell. She crouches by the dead bandit again but this time extracts a sword from his limp hands. She looks up at him and squints.

“You know how to wield a sword?” she asks.

He glares at her like she’s an idiot. “Of course I do. I’ve been trained my entire life.” His glare turns suspicious. “If Heda sent you, you would have known that…”

“Don’t.” She snaps and he jumps from the sharpness in her voice. “Question later. Take the sword and let’s go.”

She watches him swallow thickly but he takes the offered sword and says nothing. Clarke doesn’t know if he’s decided to trust her or has realised she could probably kill him at any moment if she wanted to and has opted to stay on her good side. It doesn’t matter anyway. They’ve wasted far too much time. She pushes herself up so she’s standing and heads over to the tunnel that led her here when Aden calls her name.

She sighs and turns on him. “What?” she pushes through gritted teeth. Anxiety is making her irritable.

He almost trembles under her intense stare but manages to hold strong. He points to her leg and quietly states, “you’re bleeding.”

Clarke blinks at him and glances down. She sucks in a sharp breath when she sees the blood that leaks through the leather, thin red droplets dripping through her cuff and onto her boots. “Shit,” Clarke curses, knowing her leg wound has probably been agitated far enough with all the action. “I’m fine.” She assures though, knowing she can ignore it. “We need to keep moving.”

Aden doesn’t look like he believes her, but under her glare he says nothing and follows once she starts moving again.

Now that she’s noticed it the pain from her leg seems to hit her suddenly and it throbs with each passing second. She grits her teeth and continues on, refusing to give it notice, instead picking up her pace in hopes it will distract her. She pauses once she reaches the gate though, glancing out as far she can to see if there’s anybody around.

Thankfully there’s no one. But when her eyes flick to the side, she sees the dog is gone.

“Come on,” Clarke whispers, glancing behind her to the wide eyes of Aden. Her heart clenches when she realises just how young he is. “Don’t make a sound. Follow me and stay quiet.”

He nods at her and Clarke returns the gesture before opening the gate.

They slip through without sound. Clarke is fast on crouched feet as she moves across, keeping her steps light and quiet. She’s relieved to find Aden mimicking, if only slightly louder, not quite yet versed enough to reach her skill. When she glances behind her as they move she sees him eyeing her feet with a furrowed brow, as if he stares hard enough he’ll suddenly learn her secret. It makes her soften bit, her heart seize up, and she has to swallow the desert in her throat to keep going.

They pass by the barracks and the platform and Clarke’s heart kicks up with each minute. She can practically feel it splintering against her ribcage with how close they are. She clenches her hands and picks up their pace just that bit faster, that bit quicker, and it’s as the gate of the tunnel that will lead to the mouth of cave appears that Clarke spies something else and she freezes. Her hand shoots out behind her and latches onto Aden’s collar, dragging him with her as she jumps towards the nearest form of cover. It turns out to be a large rock that resembles more a boulder.

Clarke peeks her head out and stares at the dog that paces around the gate to their freedom.

Fuck.

Clarke’s grip stays tight on Aden. She slowly turns her head around and locks eyes with him.

“What is it?” he whispers to her, thankfully knowing to keep his voice as low as possible.

‘Dog.’ She mouths back to him. She watches the worry that draws his face, but more importantly the regret. All over again she’s reminded that he’s just a child, a fucking kid that got caught up in a power-hungry politic clusterfuck. She briefly screws her eyes shut and sighs, knowing he won’t like her for it, but it’s necessary. Except then she hears a low growl and backs up from the edge of the rock so they’re further out of sight.

The growl starts to get closer, and it hits Clarke suddenly.

It can smell her blood from her leg.

She releases a trembling breath, her fingers curling impossibly tighter to Aden’s collar. It will find them. The dog will start barking soon, will definitely bark the second she pops out enough to risk an attack on him. The bandits will wake up and rush out. They’ll find the bodies; see the missing boy; see _them_. She can’t take them all. She can’t. Perhaps she could incapacitate enough to make a go for the exit, but then they will just follow, will grab their bows and take them while they run around the lake. They won’t make it, it’s too likely Aden will get hurt, maybe even killed.

The growls grow into a snarl, and she hears Aden’s breathless whisper of her name, pleading and scared.

And she knows what she has to do.

Clarke slowly releases her grip from Aden. Instead she takes a deep breath and faces him, trying to calm her racing heart. “Aden. You’re going to listen to me and do exactly as I say, okay?” he nods at her, and it’s clear he’s terrified now, even if he tries to hide it. “The gate over there, it’s going to blow off. You’re going to run for it. As fast as you can, do you hear me? As _fast_ as you fucking can. You run and you don’t stop till you’re out the cave. You’re going to go left, follow the edge of the lake.”

The snarls are dangerously close now, and Clarke’s hands shoots out and grab Aden’s shoulders, forcing him to focus on her and not the coming danger.

“You will be okay. Do you understand? Lexa is waiting for you there. She will be with two horses. Just follow the lake, she will be watching and will wait for you. You will be safe, I promise you.”

“What will you do?” he whispers, his voice shaking.

Clarke offers a smile that she hopes is more reassuring than she feels. “I’m going to give you time.” She mutters, and she’s surprised when Aden’s eyes widen and he hisses at her.

“No! They’ll kill you! You can’t take them all—“

“You don’t know me, kid.” Clarke cuts off. She doesn’t mention how she agrees. “I’ll be fine, now,” she releases him and readies herself to jump out. She’ll throw the dog out the way, blast the door, and be the wall between Aden and the bandits. It will give him enough time to run and get to Lexa. “I swore to Lexa that I would bring you back, and you won’t make me break that promise, understand? If I don’t see you running to her then _I_ will kill you, alright?”

Aden clenches his jaw in eerie resemblance to Lexa, but, his eyes drop, and he nods his head. “ _Sha, Klark._ ”

Clarke pretends she doesn’t blink back tears.

Instead she clears her throat and rises, Aden mimicking. “Good, give me your sword. I’ll trade you for a dagger.” It’s an attempt at humour but Clarke sees that it works, thankfully, and he smiles shakily as they trade weapons. “When you get to Lexa tell her to run. If she comes back for me she risks losing you, make sure she understands.” Aden gives her another nod, and when she hears the dog let out a bark she flexes her grip on the sword. Bends her knees in preparation. “Here we go.” She mutters.

She jumps out before she can change her mind.

Warmth rips through her arm as it shoots out. Hastily she swipes her hand to the side and the dog goes flying with a panicked yelp. Instantly she’s bolting forward and ignoring the alarmed and confused shouts that ring throughout the cavern, grabbing Aden’s hand and pulling him with her. She lets go when she’s near enough and forces a burst wind hard enough that door goes flying off its hinges and is flung to the side.

“Go!” she hisses and Aden sprints past her and to the open gate. She turns around hastily and sees the bandits that had previously been sleeping stumbling out of the tent and towards them. When Clarke checks behind her and sees that Aden is still standing there, hesitating on leaving her, she pulls her lip back and snarls at him. “ _Nau Aden_!”

He lingers one last second before he spins around and runs.

Clarke draws herself up as a wave of bandits skid to a stop just a few metres away from her. She spins the sword in her hand, testing the weight of it and preparing for the inevitable fight. One of the bandits shoves her way to the front, but Clarke thinks her to be the leader of some sort, as the others lurch back from her angry path like touching her meant instant death. The woman has long fire red hair and a flat face, but her body is toned and her grip on her curved sword is sure; she is not someone to mess with.

Clarke extends her hand to the ground but keeps it behind her back. She lets the warmth build.

“Well, if it isn’t Wanheda herself.” The woman grins, but her smile is sharp and shark-like.

“And you are?” Clarke questions, trying to buy Aden time by talking. It doesn’t work because the woman’s smile turns knowing.

“Wanheda stays alive. Get her.” Her eyes turn hard. “And bring the damn boy back.”

The moment the bandits take a step forward Clarke brings her arm out and releases her magic, a heavy wave bursting and shoving all of them back. Just from the single gust alone she’s already tired and know she’s not near replenished enough. A short round of meditation can only regain so much. So she bares her teeth and runs towards them.

The closest one is still pulling himself to his feet and Clarke gets to him just as he’s on his knee, Clarke swiping the sword low and cutting his throat before he can lurch back from the swift attack. She doesn’t get a second to feel relief though because suddenly the rest are up and coming for her. She does her best at taking them on, but there’s far too many for her to stand a chance. It doesn’t mean she holds back though. She gives it her all, her strikes vicious and brutal with no glimpse of mercy. The only advantage she has is how their strikes aren’t aimed to be lethal. Unlike them, she doesn’t have that restriction.

Her only thought is to buy enough time. She makes sure to always keep her back to the tunnel to the outside, knowing she is the only thing between them and Aden. She keeps on the defensive and only strikes out when she can, taking shallow cuts at her arms and sides as she parries and ducks as many attacks as she can.

She manages to fall two of them, but as she ducks a sword she sees a bandit making a break for the tunnel behind her. Clarke snarls and shoves her hand out, forcing whatever magic is left to throw the bandit back. Just before he reaches the tunnel he’s flung back and flies through the air before slamming into the ground.

She shouldn’t have diverted her attention though and the consequence comes in someone slamming into her. She’s thrown onto the ground face first, and before she can push herself up to her feet someone is grabbing her shoulder and rolling her onto her back. It’s the woman from before, the leader, and she smirks down at her as her hands snap onto Clarke’s throat. Clarke claws at her, tries to buck out of her grip, but she only feels the fingers press tighter into her neck, losing precious air to her grunts and snarls.

She tries to call her magic again, but when her hand shoots up nothing happens. She’s wasted too much already in the fight. Both today and yesterday.

Black spots start to crowd in on her vision.

“You put up a good fight Wanheda,” the woman above her breathes, and Clarke slowly starts to feel her muscles weaken. “But you’ve lost.”

Clarke tries to insult her, still desperately trying to pull the hands off her, but she feels it before it happens. How her vision blurs and her grip begins to slack. She knows it then. She’s lost. Clarke releases one final choked breath before her eyes involuntarily slide shut, her last conscious thought being the imagined relief on Lexa’s face when she sees Aden.

She wonders if Lexa’s smile then would be with teeth.

It pains her to know she’ll never see it.

-

When Clarke awakens it’s with an aching body.

Her eyes blink open blearily; her face pulling into a grimace at the pounding in her head that she can’t tell is from exhaustion or injury. Maybe both. She realises she’s leaning against something, stone probably by the coldness and rough feel of it, and when she turns her head she sees she’s in Aden’s cell, of all places. She also realises that she isn’t alone, and two bandits stare at her from the other side of the bars. Clarke gives them a wolfish grin.

“Guard duty, am I right?”

One of them is a woman and at Clarke’s prodding her weathered face breaks out into a snarl. “You killed my brother.” She snaps and Clarke simply shrugs. With only slightly shaky legs she pushes herself off the cave wall, grabs onto the metal bars for support and pulls herself up to her feet.

“I don’t know who you refer to,” Clarke starts, catching the way the woman looks about one insult away from lunging her. She smirks. “But he deserved it.”

The bandit seems to snap then and lets out an enraged roar before she charges at her. Though her body is aching and she’s still regaining her bearings, Clarke is quick to adapt and ready herself. The moment that the bandit is close enough Clarke’s arm shoots through the bars and she grabs the woman’s neck. She twists her and presses up further so she can hook her elbow into the bandit’s throat. The other guard lets out a panicked bark at that and scrambles forward to free her.

The woman struggles against Clarke’s choke hold, but Clarke pulls tighter at the choked gasps and uses her other hand to quickly frisk the woman’s side. She finds what she’s looking for just as the other guard rushes forward and shoves her with his hands through the bars. The guy is strong and Clarke’s forced to let go, staggering back as the woman bandit falls to ground and shuffles as far away as she can, coughing violently and gulping much needed air.

The male bandit sneers at Clarke before turning around and helping his comrade up, but Clarke rushes forward to the gate of her cell and uses the key she’d nicked off the bandit, reaching around and slipping it into the lock. They only realise what she’s done when a resounding _click_ echoes throughout the small cavern and both the bandits’ heads whip around.

The bandit closest jumps up to his feet but Clarke gets to him first and strikes a kick hard enough that he’s sent splayed back. The woman, though still coughing slightly, jumps over his body and comes at her. She’s fast, Clarke will give her that, but there’s desperation to Clarke’s attacks that have the bandit backing up and taking hits more than giving them. Clarke is abundantly sure of her fate if she doesn’t escape.

She finally manages to best the bandit, hitting her in the belly and as the bandit curls over kneeing her in the face, _hard_ , a loud crack snapping to her ears and ending with the woman slumping to the ground. Clarke can hear shouting from deeper within the caves and snatches the nearest dagger before taking off. She doesn’t have time.

But doesn’t get far. A stream of bandits flood in through the one tunnel to her exit, and while Clarke just about fights off the first one, suddenly there’s two, and then three, and then four and she’s face first on the ground. Someone jumps onto her back and digs their knee into her shoulder blades, wrenching her hand back from where she’d been reaching and grabbing one of her fingers. She instantly knows what’s about to happen but it doesn’t lessen the pain when they roughly jerk a finger back and it breaks.

Clarke bites off her scream at the flare of blaring pain, but at feeling something sharp press up against the side of her neck she doesn’t retaliate. She does manage to glare at the dagger that digs into her skin though.

“Try anything and the rest of your hand goes as well.” The bandit above her snarls and Clarke blinks away the pained tears in her eyes. She’s panting harsh breaths, though Clarke manages to give her reluctant agreement. She nods into the ground. There’s no chance at escape now. She’ll have to try again at another time.

The pressure at her back suddenly disappears, and she’s pulled up to her feet only to get clobbered in the head and she’s out again.

-

The next time she wakes she’s not in the cell anymore.

Now her head pounds even _worse_ , and she doesn’t stop her soft groan at the ache of it. There’s a steady throb of pain from her hand too and she’s only a little grateful that it’s her right and not her left. Least they didn’t break the good one. This time when she opens her eyes it takes her a few seconds to work out where she is, until she pieces together that she’s on that natural stone platform from before, but unlike then she’s tied to a wooden post. When she twists her head around she sees the thick rope at her hands that leads to an even thicker stump. She highly doubts she’d be strong enough to pull it free.

Clarke closes her eyes, shuffles back enough so she can lean her back against the stump.

She hopes Aden is safe.

-

She’s left alone for a while.

Though she knows it’s only an illusion that there’s no immediate guards standing near her. She can hear them anyway, their laughs and their grunts and their snarls. The cave is lit up in soft, warm light that in any other circumstance, Clarke would probably be taking the opportunity to try and memorise, in the hopeful off chance that she could recreate it. She doubts she could, but it’s a pleasant thought.

She’s getting hungry now though. Her stomach is growling every few seconds and she’s half tempted to growl back at it. They’re not getting food, not from the ‘kind’ hearts of bandits, so complaining about it will get her nowhere. Her body doesn’t listen to her. Her stomach still grumbles and she’s honestly about to snarl at herself when suddenly she straightens up. There are approaching footsteps.

Clarke curls her left hand into a fist from behind her back when she sees it’s the leader, the woman smirking at her as she casually walks over and crouches down in front of her. Clarke blinks when she realises there’s a bowl of food in her hands. Rabbit by the smell it.

“Well, you’ve certainly made my day far more interesting Wanheda.” The woman smiles, and Clarke hides her discomfort at the sight of it. It looks plain wrong on the woman’s face.

Clarke just glares at her.

She sighs. “You know, you’re more impressive than I thought you’d be. All this talk of you I figured most of it was just stories but,” and she tilts her head then, as if really considering her, “it seems they are not all lies.”

“Why do you care?” Clarke says, narrowing her eyes.

The woman looks far too pleased that Clarke is talking. “There are rumours you know. Everyone knows you killed Pike, but some people say that you broke a blood oath.” Clarke feels her spine stiffen. The woman shrugs. “Of course, it’s impossible to definitively know. Heda was the only witness. No one’s sure if you killed him after or before you made it. Most say you did before, after all, you’d have to be suicidal to break one in front of Heda herself.”

Clarke lifts her chin when the bandit’s lips tilt up.

“But you want to know what I think?” she mutters quiet, setting aside the bowl and leaning forward. “You stayed back for the kid. Decided to take on an army you had no hope of winning. You’re smart, I think you did it knowing you were probably going to die. And yet,” her face inches even closer, and Clarke fights the urge to recoil. “You still did it. That’s very selfless of you, stupid, of course, _exceedingly_ stupid, but selfless. So I think that you did kill Pike _after_ you made the oath. Because that would be a very selfless and stupid thing to do. It’s the only way he’d give you the location of here.”

Clarke stays quiet, and she prays to the Gods that her thundering heart isn’t loud enough to be heard.

The woman smiles wide at her silence. “Come on, just admit it. We both know you’ll be dead by tomorrow. You’ve got nothing to lose. You lost us our payday, with the boy gone. I’m going to thoroughly enjoy making a spectacle of your death Wanheda.” She finally leans back, that cocky smile still remaining. “Tell me, am I right? If you tell me I’ll consider a more merciful death.”

Clarke stares at her. But, slowly, she takes in a defeated breath, watches the excitement that enters the bandit’s eyes. She leans forward, and without hesitating Clarke spits on her.

The woman curses and springs back. Her face breaks out into a snarl. “Fucking bitch!” She growls, and with her feet she kicks over the bowl so that the meat and vegetables goes flying. Clarke ignores the drop of her stomach. “You’ll pay for that. I’ll make sure you choke on your own fucking blood.”

Before Clarke can do anything the woman stomps over and slams her boot into Clarke’s stomach. As the air rushes out of her lungs and she curls over she finds a sudden presence in front of her, grabbing her hair and ripping her head back, exposing her throat. She feels something cold and sharp press against her neck, but Clarke just pulls her lip back at the woman’s face that hovers near hers.

“Do what you want with me,” Clarke breathes, and the woman’s face grows tighter, more enraged. Clarke laughs coldly at her. “But you’ve lost,” she parrots, “you say the boy is gone. You have nothing now. You’ve lost, _I’ve_ won. No matter what you do.”

The bandit snarls and lets go of her, but she punches her hard enough that Clarke’s head whips to the side.

“Fucking scum.” The bandit mutters under her breath before she swiftly gets to her feet and storms off. She kicks the bowl again when it nears her and sends it flying off the platform.

Clarke feels the pain begin to blossom at her cheek, and now that she’s alone and knows she’s unlikely to get interrupted, she screws her eyes shut and feels the tears finally spill. Whether they’re from the physical pain or the sadness that closes like a vice around her heart she doesn’t know. All she does know is that it was worth it. Aden got out, he got to Lexa, and now, Lexa will be happy.

She did it. She did the job; she succeeded in what probably was the most difficult of her life.

Clarke doesn’t smile.

-

Her sleep is surprisingly restful considering her predicament.

It’s dreamless, which is probably the best part. But she rests, feels herself go limp as she lies sideways on the hard ground. She’s not sure how much time passes. She knows it must be for a few hours at least, as when she finds a sudden boot hitting her ribs as a wakeup call, everyone is moving and full of energy. It’s morning, probably late. A new day. Her execution.

She’s getting tired of waking up in strange places in binds.

At least with Heda her captor was pretty.

“Up,” a rough voice snaps at her, his voice sounding like someone lit his throat on fire. Once Clarke recovers from the abrupt hit, her mind still foggy with sleep, she glares up at the bandit and briefly considers spitting on him. Before she can however he narrows his eyes at her and a large hand grips her collar. She’s jerked to her feet, and by the swell of the man’s surprisingly vast muscles, perhaps she’s lifted a little higher, her toes just touching the ground. “We’ve a busy day Wanheda,” the man smiles, revealing crooked teeth. Without warning he suddenly drops her and Clarke just barely keeps from falling to the ground. “Look forward.” He barks at her.

She stands still as he walks around her, and she presumes it’s to untie her from the post. Her back straightens. She waits till she hears the bandit grunt in his effort to free her. When she finally catches the approaching steps she spins around and kicks him with the in-step of her boot into his shin with all the strength she can muster. He shouts in surprise and pain but Clarke uses the precious time and bares her teeth when she kicks him again in the same spot in the next second, and this time she’s rewarded with a _crack_ and his scream.

He drops and Clarke spins around and bolts. Of course, she doesn’t get far, as his shouts had alerted the rest of them and she finds herself being tackled to the ground just a few breaths later. She’s _really_ getting tired of this. Her wrists are still tied tightly behind her back and though she bucks in her captor’s grip, even try to rise up to head-butt them she’s unable to defend herself from a parade of fists.

“Get off her!” an increasingly familiar voice snaps, and though the bandit above her stops, their raised fist pausing, they don’t move.

Clarke gives them a bloody smile. “You heard the girl,” she breathes, her voice rough with pain.

The bandit bares their teeth but before they can get another hit in the leader is shoving them off her and suddenly taking up Clarke’s field of view.

Her left eye twitches as she glares down at her.

Clarke keeps her grin, feigning her nonchalance about the situation. She ignores how fast her heart pounds; the dread and defeat that threaten to overwhelm her entire being. Instead she focuses on the pained stuttered breathing from behind her that she assumes to be the one she kicked before.

“You’re a spritely one, I’ll give you that.” The leader sighs at her. “Would have made a fine second in command. Maybe even more.”

“You’re deluded if you ever think I’d work for Pike,” Clarke snarls, and she finds arms slipping under her armpits and hauling her up. She hears a growl low in her ear and a hand wrapping around her broken finger from behind. Clarke sucks in a sharp breath and screws her eyes in preparation for the pain. She’s surprised when she doesn’t feel the explosion of agony like she was expecting, and as she blinks open her gaze she sees it’s the leader’s fault, as she’s raised a hand in silent command.

The leader slowly stalks forward, Clarke feels the man’s hand move off her own and instead grip her ropes and jerk them hard, making them even tighter and Clarke stifle a grunt.

“You’re right, you’d never work for Pike.” She says, and she only stops her advance when she’s a step away. Clarke’s so close she can see the madness in her eye. “You wouldn’t work for him. You’d _become_ him.”

Clarke’s feels fire light her veins. Her lip pulls back like a wolf about to pounce and she snarls loud enough it echoes like a boom. She lurches forward but the bandit behind her grabs both of her arms and pulls her back. It doesn’t matter though, Clarke struggles as hard as she can, she writhes and she bucks and she _burns_.

She almost breaks free too, her red haze of a gaze only on one figure, but then the backs of her legs are kicked out and she’s on her knees. She tries valiantly to escape again but it’s too late now.

Clarke is panting hard when the leader crouches down so they’re eye level.

“Fuck you,” Clarke snarls, “Pike is scum. He killed for the pleasure of it. I would _never_ be that fucking demon.”

“Maybe so. Maybe you’d be better, be bigger.” It’s strange and wrong how just plain _happy_ the woman is in this moment. “He doesn’t have the fire like you. You know, I don’t think I wouldn’t have minded serving under you if you ever became him. I know you hate to admit it,” and she leans forward then, drops her voice to a mocking conspiratorial tone, “but you and him are far more similar than you know.”

Clarke tries to lunge for her but finds a sudden sword at her throat. She stills, but her blood still burns and she leans as far as she dares, close enough that she actually feels the sharp slice of pain. When she sees it makes the leader falter Clarke goes further. She leans forward even more, and it’s not long till she’s feeling wet droplets trickling down her neck.

“You can talk all you want, but you are missing the obvious. Pike was selfish to his last breath. He sold you out for his own ego. He doesn’t give a _damn_ for the ones that serve under him.” She sees the concern that flickers over some of the bandits’ faces. Thin streaks still bleed down her neck. “I bleed for my people, for the ones who give me their allegiance. And I always will. You will learn the difference when you kill me. Pike’s death means nothing. Mine will not.”

She says this all without blinking, even if she’s dangerously pushing it now. As much as it’s to intimidate the leader, it’s also a test, to see how far she’ll let her go. The ultimate game of who will give in first.

In no surprise the bandit caves and curses at her.

“Sheathe your sword,” she hisses and the blade disappears from her throat. There’s red smeared on her neck now, and Clarke hides her breath of relief. The woman eyes her with something Clarke can’t name. “You’ve wasted enough time with this.” She mutters and it seems to be the unspoken signal. She gets to her feet and Clarke is roughed to hers as well. Clarke stares at her, their shared gaze intense enough to be sliced through with a knife. When Clarke says nothing the woman shakes her head. “We’ve an execution to get to.”

Clarke is terrified to the bone but her head is high when she’s shoved forward.

-

She’s forgotten how cold it is outside.

Clarke decides that in the off chance that she _doesn’t_ die she’s going to go somewhere tropical. With trees and warmth and none of this goddamn fucking snow. She eyes the bandits marching with her with a glare. _They_ get to have thick furs to keep themselves warm while she has to hide her chattering teeth and the coldness that feels like millions of sharp knives slicing her skin. Fucking cold. She’s going right back home if she survives somehow.

She’s missed Jake.

They don’t tread far, thankfully. They follow the edge of the lake for a bit, dipping off to the right eventually and into the trees. Clarke tries to keep her breathing even as she’s taken through. She’s constantly glancing at her surroundings, seeing if there’s any opportunity for her to take, but her gut always drops when she sees nothing, finds nothing, and she simply has to grit her teeth and pretend she’s calm as she walks to her death.

But what’s the most worrying isn’t the fact that she’s about to die.

It’s that she doesn’t regret it.

She doesn’t. She can pretend she does, pretend that she’s angry at herself for ever accepting Lexa’s deal and not just letting herself rot in the dungeons until she formulates a plan of a escape, to live on the run for the rest of her life, hunted till her last breath. She can _pretend_ that she’s mad at herself for giving the boy the time he needed to run, that she let her empathy and need to fix everything hurt her, fuck her over once again.

But she doesn’t. Because there is no regret, nothing but acceptance really. She would do it all again she knows. If only so she will always be graced with the memories she now has; the pain in her leg from the Direwolf, the feel of Lexa’s hand on her cheek, pressed against her back for warmth, the pure and blinding flicker of hope that burned in Aden’s gaze like fires in the dark. She has no regret. Not for a single thing.

Except, maybe there’s _one_ thing she regrets. But it’s not of what she did.

It’s of what she didn’t.

She idly wonders if Lexa would have kissed back.

The leader slows her pace, and Clarke realises this is it. She glances around wherever the bandits have led her. They’re surrounded by trees—though if she looks behind her and squints she eyes she thinks she can _just_ see the sparkle of the frozen lake—and it’s a wide clearing they’re in. In the centre is a large flat stone, and to Clarke’s surprise and horror there’s already blood on it. It’s old though, red streaks crusted into the rock.

Someone’s been executed here before.

The bandit holding her snickers into her ear when he feels her sudden stiffness. “Scared now _Wanheda_?” her title drips with mocking, and sure, _logically_ Clarke knows she should just clench her jaw and take the insult, but these are her last minutes and she’s allowed to do stupid things. So. She doesn’t clench her jaw, but she pushes out a slow breath that mists in front of her and tilts her head behind her.

“I pray that your soul is forever trapped in your body.” She whispers, knowing that even if they’re bandits there are some fates that even the bloodthirsty fear. As expected he tenses up, but Clarke uses the chance to bring her elbow forward as far she can from behind and jams it into his ribs. He’s not expecting the hit at all and his grip loosens just enough for her to rip out of it. She takes the opportunity to head-butt him, sending him staggering back, and as he stumbles she lunges forward and swings her leg up to hit him square in the groin.

Clarke smirks at him as he drops, but it’s wiped off her face when someone else rams their foot into back and she’s thrown to the ground. She curses sharply when she lands on her badly on her hand, irritating her broken finger and making her forcefully bite down on her tongue in refusal to show pain.

She glances up from the ground, seeing that no one is going to help her up, which doesn’t surprise her. They probably think it’ll be more enjoyable to watch her struggle than to jerk her to her feet like a dog on a chain. So, it doesn’t surprise her that she has to roll onto her front so she can slip her knees under to help her up, but what _does_ surprise her, is when she hears an annoyed sigh.

And Clarke can recognise her from sigh alone.

Clarke’s head snaps up, and she narrows her eyes through the trees in front of her, and she sucks in a sharp breath when she sees a shadow move, a reflecting glint of a dagger.

“You fucking _idiot_ ,” Clarke snarls under her breath.

Because of _course_ Lexa couldn’t just leave her like she should. No. She’s gone and come back, risking herself in saving her. Clarke ignores the tendrils of hope that spark in her chest. She’s just about pulled herself when she sees a second flicker within the trees, thankfully only noticeable if you’re looking for it, and Clarke realises that Lexa isn’t alone. But they’re too far out to get help, which can only mean…

“You _complete_ and _utter_ fucking idiot.” Clarke growls, but then she’s standing and she can’t focus on them anymore. _Them_ plural. Because Lexa has goddamn roped Aden into this suicidal rescue mission. Does Lexa _not_ see how many damn bandits are with her? There’s at least ten. If Aden gets killed then this entire mission was folly. Her sacrifice would mean nothing. The entire _reason_ she is even in these damn binds is so _Aden_ could get away and back home.

Clarke’s going to fucking kill her.

“That’s enough fucking around.” The leader snaps, making the bandits around them all tense up. Clarke, still bitter about the woman hiding in the trees, scoffs angrily. This is the wrong choice however, as the leader’s gaze snaps onto her and Clarke already knows what’s going to happen. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Before Clarke can even open her mouth a fist is connecting with her face. Thankfully, it’s only the one, but it’s enough for Clarke to feel the burst of pain on her already bruised jaw.

Clarke brings her eyes back to the woman slow. Without breaking their stare she spits a mouthful of blood to the snow. It splatters the white red.

“Get on with it.” She mutters.

The woman clenches her fists, and while Clarke tenses in preparation her hands stay at her sides. Instead she lifts her chin. “Agreed. Benny, get her ready.” The bandit who she’d kicked before stomps over to her, still a slight grimace on his face from her attack. Clarke smirks through her split lip.

He says nothing this time and instead grabs her arm tight enough to bruise. He drags her forward and kicks out her legs so she’s forced to her knees. The large rock is just a few centimetres in front of her. Despite her feigned bravado, her heart kicks up a notch and she swallows thickly. She’s hoping it was Lexa in the trees. She’s about ninety percent sure, but she could always be wrong. For once she sincerely prays she’s not.

If Lexa wants to make a move, it has to be soon.

“You know, I was wanting to give you a long death Wanheda.” The leader starts, leisurely walking around her. She circles the stone until she’s opposite to her on the other side. “You’ve killed some of my men, injured them, disgraced them. You let the boy free.” Slowly, the woman’s hands unclench. “But, I believe I have let my anger blind me. You would have done what any person with a sword hanging over their head would have done. So,” she flicks a hand and Benny steps forward from her left. He carries a terrifyingly big battle-axe “I’ll show you mercy Wanheda.”

Clarke works to keep her breathing under control. She’ll be fine. She will be. She’ll escape.

In the corner of her eye she sees Benny grin and flex his grip.

“Ready her.” She orders coolly and Clarke finds sudden hands pushing on the back of her neck. Her cheek is pressed into the freezing stone. It’s more instinct than anything that she starts to resist, struggling and trying to break free. But it doesn’t work, the calloused hand stays clenched at her neck and pins her down, the binds are too tight, she can’t move her hands to channel her magic—

Wait.

Clarke pauses, and while the bandit seems to take it as defeat, it’s actually in curiosity. Because Clarke can hear it, the soft sound, the soft whistle. _Lexa_. She closes her eyes and forces herself to calm. She can do this. Her hands are tied behind her back, so she can’t throw anyone away. But she could bring something toward her.

She slowly rotates her palm from behind.

“I think you’re right Wanheda. Your death will mean something. But when word spreads that _I_ was the one who did it? Who was able to kill the ‘god’?”

Warmth begins to spread through her arm. Clarke lifts her head just enough so she can glance down.

“They call you the Commander of Death. But with you dead, I will be the one who commands it.” She laughs with an eerie emptiness. “You’ve made it far. That I’ll admit. But you’re _done_. You are the one who’s lost. Not me.”

She stretches her open palm as far as she can. Her fingers spread like a spider’s, and she lets through a scoff, if only to buy herself more time. “I’m afraid you are still confused. You haven’t won.” Clarke breathes, and she feels the hand move from her neck to the head, pushing her cheek harder into the stone. Clarke smiles against the rock.

“You’re the one at my mercy, explain just _how_ I’ve lost?” the woman snarls.

Clarke keeps looking behind her, and suddenly she sees it, realises why Lexa had shown her before. She can see it again now. The glint within the shadows of the trees. Her magic vibrates from within her arm, and Clarke focuses on where she thinks Lexa is, on the dagger she knows she holds.

“You’ve lost, bandit,” Clarke pushes through, but her smile is more a grin now. “Because _you_ are the one too much like Pike.” Her face is pushed even harder into the stone but she manages to get her words out anyway. “Like Pike, your ego will be your downfall.”

“What the fuck are you—“

Her words are cut off when Clarke finally releases her magic and from within the trees a dagger is suddenly breaking through and zooming towards her. It pierces straight through a bandit’s chest as it does, zipping through the air until Clarke catches it into her open hand. Panicked and confused shouting’s go off, and just as Clarke hears Benny’s grunt as he raises his axe everyone freezes when someone is suddenly crashing through the trees and into the clearing.

The hand holding Clarke down goes slick with shock and she rips herself away, hastily cutting at the rope with the dagger in her hands from behind, ignoring the scream of pain from her broken finger. When she’s done and scrambles up to her feet, she realises why everyone is stuck frozen, staring at something to the side of her.

When Clarke turns around she sees Lexa, but it isn’t Lexa, it’s Heda. There’s barely anything human in that gaze. She holds twin swords, but black smoke swirls along the blade, Lexa’s teeth bared and looking completely and utterly horrifying.

But then Clarke takes a step back and breaks a twig beneath her boot. The sharp _snap_ somehow breaks the spell, as everyone shares a glance, unsheathing their weapons before letting out an enraged roar and charging for her.

Clarke will be damned if Lexa gets killed coming to rescue her.

And it’s as it always seem to be, it’s with the threat of Lexa’s life does the warmth rip down her arm more intense than it’s ever been, hot and burning like lightening—her magic bursting out and creating a surge of power that sends the line of bandits flying through the air. There’s a loud chorus of thuds as they all hit the ground, and Lexa only gives her a passing glance, Heda briefly flickering out of her eyes, but at Clarke’s reassuring nod Heda returns.

Clarke doesn’t think she’s ever seen something quite as terrifying as Lexa fighting.

It all happens in a blur, and it’s both fascinating and fear inducing to watch how effortlessly she slays them. She bends around blades and swords like water, lands blows that shouldn’t land and dodges slices that should have hit. Though Clarke spends a stunned second or two just watching her, a sudden hit at her ribs reminds her that _she’s_ still in the battle too, and if she wants to live has to fight as well.

It’s Benny that’s gone for her and Clarke jumps back just in time to miss the swing of his battle-axe at her throat. She’s down one hand because of her broken finger, but she can still use it for magic, and while Clarke knows that she doesn’t have much it’s enough to give her an edge. Though Clarke knows one strike and she’s dead because of the axe’s size, it also mean he’s slow, and it’s embarrassingly easy to taunt him and get him to throw a strike that anger makes too heavy.

She ducks and the blade lands in the tree behind her. Clarke jumps back to her feet and notices Benny’s aggravated snarl as his axe is still in the wood, grunting as he tries to haul it out. He lets go of it right as Clarke slips behind him and brings Lexa’s knife to his throat.

His last words are a muttered curse.

She steps back as his body slumps to the ground, but when Clarke turns around she’s surprised to see a bandit charging for her with a spear. “Shit!” Clarke swears, attempting to lunge to the side but knowing she’s far too late, except as she crashes into the snow she glances up, realising she felt no pain.

She watches as the bandit who was coming for her staggers, their hand going limp and falling face first into the ground. A thrown knife lies embedded in the back of their head.

“Keep moving Clarke!” Lexa snarls, and Clarke blinks when she realises Lexa was the one to throw the knife. She watches as Lexa deflects a blade to the side and kicks out with her leg, hitting the bandit in the stomach and following up the strike with a slice at the throat. The bandit tries to lurch back but they’re not fast enough.

Clarke scrambles up to her feet and wrenches the knife of bandit’s head, briefly wiping the blood off against her thigh and scanning the throws of the fight. Lexa is still a whirlwind of blades and blood and Clarke’s only a little shocked to see she’s nearly wiped out all of them. Clarke’s attention snaps to the bandit approaching Lexa from behind though. She’s crouched and clearly taking effort to silence her steps, using the chance of Lexa’s distraction as she faces off with three bandits at once.

Clarke’s running before she realises. She palms both of the knives in her two hands, ignoring the twinge pain from her finger and bitten leg, instead focusing on getting to Lexa. Lexa strikes one through the chest and Clarke shouts at her as she nears.

“Stay bent!” she yells and she’s amazed when Lexa does. Clarke’s there a second later and rolls over Lexa’s back, landing at her side just in time to counter the sneak attack from the bandit that was approaching Lexa before. Clarke sees it’s the leader and the woman snarls at Clarke’s daggers that now form a cross, holding the sword that she was so close to bringing onto Lexa. The red headed bandit snarls but Clarke’s snarling right back, pulling her lip back and bringing up her knee to try and catch her off guard. The bandit blocks it and lurches back in time to miss Clarke’s swipe.

“You are _scum_ , Wanheda, blood follows you wherever you go.” She’s far faster than Clarke’s used to, but adrenaline keeps her moving, lets her keep pace with the swift slices and cuts. She parries off as many as she can but still feels the build of shallow swipes at her arms. “I bet you’ve brought death to all those you love,” the bandit grins.

Clarke ignores the jab, taking advantage when the woman overreaches and Clarke can bring her elbow down on her outstretched arm. There’s a crack and the woman bites off a scream, only letting through a grunt but losing one of her knives. “You should never have messed with the Commander of Death then.” Clarke pants, and she sees the chance before it happens. Rage reddens every inch of the bandit leader’s skin and she rushes at her with roar, throwing every and anything at her, Clarke just keeping up and taking a particularly painful slice at her side.

But the woman tires quickly, and as she takes a second too long to pull her arm back, Clarke shoves her way into the woman’s guard and slams her knife into her chest. Clarke pulls her lip back as she disarms her weak hand and wraps her hand around the hilt.

“ _Yu gonplei ste odon_. _”_ Clarke snarls in a whisper, kicking her hard but holding onto her grip, brutally ripping out the blade and watching her crash into the ground. For a second Clarke stands watching, her chest heaving in rapid breaths as she watches the red bubble out of the woman’s mouth, Clarke’s eyes cold as the bandit chokes on her own blood. But then she hears a grunt from behind her and she spins around, her blade up and already in the downward momentum.

A hand catches her wrist but Clarke relaxes when she sees the owner.

Lexa is panting too, and slowly she releases her grip on Clarke’s arm. Clarke knows if she starts she won’t be able to stop, so she forces herself to tear her gaze off the warrior who stands so close to her, scanning the battlefield and feeling less shocked than she should have been at the silence. Everything is still. All the enemies are dead.

Clarke’s gaze zeros on the boy that slowly emerges from the trees. She recognises the blond hair and cautious eyes, and she’s happy to see her furs wrapped around him for warmth. Clarke takes a deep breath before looking back to Lexa.

Lexa’s already staring at her, yet it’s not at her eyes at but at her neck. “You’re bleeding,” she breathes, and her voice trembles with fear. Lexa reaches a shaking hand to the blood on her throat but Clarke’s uninjured hand comes up and grabs Lexa’s outstretched one.

“I’m fine.” Clarke assures, making sure her voice is strong, sincere, knowing Lexa won’t believe her if it shakes. It probably doesn’t help that she’s still regaining her breath. Lexa’s eyes finally break off from her neck and lock onto hers. “I’m okay, I promise.”

Lexa swallows, but she gives her a nod.

Clarke steps back a little so she can scan Lexa’s own body, and she frowns at the black blood that leaks from Lexa’s split lip, the slice at her left leg that looks a tad too deep to brush off. But Lexa must read her mind because she shakes her head at her. “I am fine,” she says. “Do not worry for me.”

“You’re sure?”

Lexa’s gaze is steady. “Yes.”

Clarke smiles slightly. “Good. Because now that I know that you’re going to be fine,” she loses her smile and her hands shoot out, shoving Lexa back hard. Lexa staggers but it seems to be more shock than anything that lets her. “Just what the actual _fuck_ were you thinking?”

Lexa’s jaw drops. She blinks at her, and Clarke sees in the corner of her eye that Aden has now frozen in his approach of the two. Lexa looks entirely confused. “Aden said you stayed back. That the bandits said to keep you alive. We assumed it meant they were wanted to kill you properly.”

“Yes and did Aden _also_ tell you how I told you to fucking _run the fuck away_?”

Lexa glances to Aden in what Clarke’s thinks is in search of help, but the boy offers her none. Clarke glares at her.

“You are goddamn lucky that the Gods like you Lexa. Because if _you_ had died on this suicidal rescue mission, if _Aden_ had,” and Clarke laughs sharply then, and Lexa actually looks a little scared at the sound. “I swear to you I would find a way to make your spirit pay. Immensely. _Painfully_.”

Lexa still looks both confused and afraid, but she holds her ground like always. “I will not leave you to die, Clarke.” She mutters.

“Why?” Clarke exclaims, throwing up her arms. “I did it. I’ve fulfilled my oath to you, I got you Aden back. Why else would you need me?”

And maybe Clarke knows what’s going to happen before it does. Lexa gives her that look, the one that she normally can never read, like Lexa’s just found out the meaning of life and Clarke is the answer. Because she gets it now, she thinks she knows.

Lexa gives her that look that could bring the Gods to their knees, and with it she leans forward and gently presses her lips against Clarke’s. Surprise makes Clarke still, makes her brain short-circuit and freeze with the shock of what she thinks can’t _possibly_ be happening, that she’d ever be both lucky and doomed enough for such a thing. But when she blinks and the lips are still there, and when Clarke cautiously kisses back, she feels Lexa smile, and Clarke lets herself believe.

Clarke’s eyes flutter shut and the longer it goes the firmer that belief becomes. It gives her the strength to slip her good hand around Lexa’s neck and pull her in, Lexa’s own hand drifting to Clarke’s back and supporting her as she bends when she pulls her. Her lips are slightly cold, a little chapped and little with the taste of blood—but it’s perfect. It’s completely and utterly perfect.

And they have to pull away to breathe, when they’ve pushed right to their very limits; Clarke’s eyes flutter open as she breathes in the freezing air. Clarke sees it, the thing she’s been wanting to see for so long. It makes her heart stop dead in her chest. Makes her stomach explode in warmth and butterflies. Because Lexa is so beautiful in this moment, her grin so wide and breathtaking.

And Lexa’s smile is full of teeth.

-

Clarke is actually giddy as she drags the hand behind her.

It’s a rare feeling. She hasn’t felt just this childish _excitement_ for years, but with Lexa free from politics for at least a small while—something Anya seemed to be both pissed and relieved about—Clarke was able to finally show Lexa her homeland. Even if Polis had become home over years, these were the lands she was born on, grew on. And there was someone she’d had to leave when she left Skaikru territory but now that she was visiting home she could see him again.

“Clarke you are going to rip my arm off if you keep pulling me like this.” Lexa grouches, though in contradiction to her statement she actually picks up her pace and makes no move to let go of her hand. Clarke smiles at her as she looks back to her lover.

“Come on, we’re so close now I promise. It’ll be worth it.”

Lexa glares at her. “You’ve been saying that for the past hour.”

“And we’re getting closer every time!” Clarke sings, and though Lexa huffs at her, she sees it’s with a barely contained smile.

It’s been about month since she returned back to Polis with Lexa. A whole month she had to wait for Lexa to be free so she could take her for this trip, so while Clarke knew that Lexa would complain it was all in jest, and she seemed to instinctively know like she always does of when things are more important than they seem. From the way that Lexa let her drag her along like an excited child Clarke knew that _Lexa_ knew that this is important.

It had been a slightly awkward affair when they had returned. They had stopped by Bredon on their way back, collapsing into the same room the innkeeper gave last time and brushing off his profuse thanks over them slaying the Direwolf. He refused their money when they tried to pay him for the night, instead glaring at them and forcing them to some hot food—which Clarke can admit she caved a _little_ too quick to—smiling widely when they all gave in and let him win.

It was when Lexa had nodded to her, giving her shoulder a lingering affectionate squeeze and a warm smile before she guided Aden off upstairs to bed that Clarke had caught the innkeeper smirking at her from the side. When Clarke had asked him about it she was stunned to know that in their first night he had lied to them. He had told Lexa he only the double available, but when he’d heard Lexa’s voice of when she talked of her companion who needed time and that he _needed_ to make sure he fed her when she got back—he had known then what they were to each other.

Even if _they_ themselves didn’t.

The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful, though Lexa swore to her as they rode that she’s bringing that Direwolf hide to the finest tanner she knows and making use of it. They’re having their trophy. She didn’t slay a pack of wolves and have Clarke nearly die for nothing. And Lexa hadn’t been lying either, Clarke wears a jacket made of that great beast’s very hide right now. It’s a little too thick for the weather here but Clarke doesn’t care. The jacket is terrifying with the bones braided into the leather and the ginormous wolf skull that lies as a shoulder pauldron. It’s wonderfully badass and had made Raven drop her jaw when she first saw it.

Clarke jumps over a log on pure muscle memory alone, an untamable grin spreading on her lips, as she knows she actually _is_ close now.

Though Clarke doesn’t think there will be anything that ever tops the moment her, Lexa and Aden had walked through the Tower’s doors. Clarke had stayed at the back of the party, but Clarke was still able to see Anya pacing near Lexa’s throne, her entire body freezing up at seeing Lexa, and even better Aden.

That was probably the only time Clarke’s ever seen the warrior smile.

They hadn’t run forward, but Clarke caught how fast Anya paced over and knelt down so she could hug Aden. Aden hugged her back with equal tightness. Anya had lingered a few extra seconds, seeming to savour that the boy really was back, before she pushed herself to her feet and looked over at Lexa, smiling again and clapping Lexa’s shoulder.

“You have brought him back,” Anya beamed, a truly strange sight to Clarke, but Lexa had simply smiled back at her and gently pushed her hand off.

“No,” she had said, reaching back and grasping Clarke’s shoulder, softly urging her forward. “Clarke did.”

“I would have died multiple times on that journey without you Lexa.” Clarke quickly refuted, which only made Lexa huff.

Lexa playfully glared at her. “You brought him back. You are the one who must be honoured, Clarke.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “So dramatic,” she’d murmured, but Lexa had heard and narrowed her eyes at her.

And then came the moment when Clarke turned her eyes off Lexa, when she’d looked over at the warrior who was now gaping at the two of them, probably finally putting together how close and casually they stood, how Lexa’s hand hadn’t yet moved Clarke’s shoulder.

Clarke will never forget Anya’s face as she realised.

“Please tell me you have not done what I think you’ve done.” She’d muttered and while Clarke had grinned Lexa had sighed.

“Anya…”

“She is a _thief_ Lexa. A thief! A goddamn _thief._ ”

Lexa, however, had not been deterred. “She is my lover.”

“Oh my fucking—No. Gustus? Gustus!” Anya shouted, and a few moments later Gustus was striding into the room.

He frowned as he approached, seeing Anya’s distraught state. “Anya, what—“

“We’re getting a drink. Now.” Without preamble and ignoring how Gustus’ eyes bulged at seeing Heda back in one piece and Aden at her feet, his relieved smile was cut off by Anya storming past and snatching his arm, pulling him with her.

“Anya! What is going on?” Gustus exclaimed in shock.

“Lexa has made the thief her lover.”

Gustus had used his strength then, putting his foot down and not letting Anya drag him back anymore. His eyes had bored into her. “ _What_?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Clarke thought it lovely to speak up then. “Heda has a soft spot for thieves.” She’d grinned, enjoying how Anya stared up as if in prayer for divine intervention and Gustus dropped his jaw. She heard Lexa sigh again from beside her.

“I do _not_ Clarke. You are more than a thief.”

Like always whenever Lexa was sweet it caught her off guard. She had been unable to do nothing but stare at her, and once a few tense moments had paused Gustus finally seemed to pull himself together. Clarke watched as he turned to lock gazes with Anya.

“Right. What are we drinking?”

Clarke speeds up once she sees they’re just about here. Lexa must notice too because she hurries her steps with her, doing surprisingly well as they near and run down a slope that leads into an abandoned quarry, Clarke just keeping herself from sliding on the gravel. They finally hit the bottom and Clarke, though reluctant to, lets go of Lexa’s hand as she walks across the now flat ground. The grass dips beneath her feet.

Lexa is frowning slightly as she glances around at the area before her eyes settle on Clarke. “Clarke there is… nothing here?” Lexa says, though it’s more a question than a statement.

Clarke’s smile is still wild and excited. She knows what Lexa talks of though. There’s nothing here, just the dirt walls and the large cave off to the side that once upon a time ago was a mine. Now it’s a home.

“Do you remember when we first met, and you asked me about the Skaikru?” Clarke asks, and she knows this prompt enough for Lexa to work it out. It takes a moment, but soon her eyes widen, her jaw dropping.

“But you said…”

“I said they can’t be tamed,” Clarke corrects, probably enjoying it a little too much of Lexa’s disbelieving shock. “I never said they weren’t real. And I wasn’t lying, you can’t _tame_ them. But you can make friends with them.”

Without any more stalling Clarke turns around. She brings her left hand to her mouth and blows a sharp whistle. She only needs to wait a few moments before there’s the loud sound of flapping wind from heavy wings, and appearing as if out of the clouds a blur of blue and silver appears out of the very skies. The blur dives down and the closer it gets the more its humongous size becomes apparent and while Clarke feels Lexa jump back when the blur lands with a resounding _boom_ of the clearing, Clarke stays where she is and opens her arms wide.

“Jake!” Clarke beams and Jake huffs smoke at her through his gnarled nostrils before his massive head is colliding into her body. Clarke laughs as she wraps her arms around him, avoiding the horn that pokes out at his nose and sighing with happiness at being reunited with him. She makes an effort to visit him as often as possible, but she knows it far too long since she’s last seen him.

Jake is clearly feeling the same in missing her as he tries to push into her touch further, but it only forces her boots skidding across the grass until she bumps into Lexa. Clarke gives his head a playful slap before she pulls back, rubbing her hands across his head as he continues to nudge her. With that same wide smile she turns to the woman beside her and delights in her dropped jaw.

“This is Jake,” Clarke introduces, grimacing when Jake proceeds to try and lick her face at the lack of sole attention. Honestly, Clarke thinks he’s more like a dog than a dragon.

Lexa doesn’t seem to be breathing. “Clarke that’s… that’s a dragon. An actual dragon.” Lexa breathes and Clarke thinks this one of the first times she’s heard Lexa stutter. Of course that excludes when they’re in bed together. Lexa can’t talk properly then either, Clarke knows with smug satisfaction.

Clarke gives Jake one last stroke before she steps back and finally he seems to be content with his snuggling. His large blue eyes blink over to Lexa, seeming to take her in, and Clarke watches as Lexa does the same. Clarke lets herself admire Jake as well, figuring as it’s been so long since she’s seen the mythical beast.

His scales are large and glint in the afternoon light, the tips of them silver while the top is a dark blue, gradually fading into the white shiny tips. Clarke’s tried drawing them on multiple occasions, but there’s something about them she can never replicate, never can get _quite_ right. It’s probably something to do with magic Clarke decides.

He’s magnificent, but there are large pink scars across his face and belly. Clarke flinches like she always does when she sees him. They were from when he was young, right when Clarke met him. He had been much smaller than, but still big compared to most animals, and he’d been taken advantage of from his owner who’d been there since he’d hatched. Clarke’s father had just passed when she stumbled across the dragon, and the dragon had just escaped his owner when he found her.

He was anxious, of course, at first. Feared her and almost killed her—twice, actually, not that she’s counting—but through careful steps their tentative truce had grown into an even stronger friendship. Clarke doesn’t think that anyone can _own_ a dragon, but you can develop a bond with them.

“You can touch him, if you want,” Clarke says quietly, watching with a soft smile at Lexa’s wide eyes, her hesitance as she glances between Clarke and Jake.

“Are you sure?” Lexa asks, nervous and rightfully so. Clarke was terrified when she first saw Jake too.

Clarke glances to Jake. “He’s far more gentle than you think. Ignore the massive teeth and the horns,” there are two on Jake’s large head, right at his nose and next to each other, the one behind slightly shorter than the other. “And you’ve got a teddy bear of a dragon. Just think of him as a really big dog.”

Jake narrows his eyes at her, vertical pupils staring her dead in eye.

But Clarke is used to the dragon and isn’t worried by him anymore.

“Seriously,” Clarke assures, and she touches Lexa’s hand gently, waiting for Lexa’s nod of permission before she gingerly starts to pull Lexa’s hand out. “He won’t hurt you, right, Jake?”

For a moment Clarke thinks Jake’s actually going to go against her, but his demeanour is soft as Clarke places Lexa’s hand against his snout. Clarke grins when Jake actually huffs and folds himself so he’s lying down. The smile that Lexa grows when Jake’s eyes slide shut at her touch, a low but pleased rumble shaking his throat is breathtaking.

Clarke gives the pair a few more moments to get acquainted before she grabs Lexa’s other hand. “Right, now, you ready to fly?”

Lexa goes bug eyed. “I’m sorry?” she stammers but Clarke’s already pulling her towards Jake’s side. Jake must sense her intent because she hears his excited huff. “Clarke!”

“Oh you’ll be _fine_ ,” Clarke drawls. Spines run along Jake’s back, but there’s a gap between his thick neck and head. The perfect space to ride Clarke has learned. “I’ll be with you the entire time.”

Before Lexa can protest anymore Clarke’s already digging her boot into Jake’s side and hauling herself up the familiar path. She adjusts herself so she’s in her usual snug spot, frowning when she doesn’t feel Lexa behind her. She glances down at Lexa that looks a mix between fascinated and terrified.

Clarke leans down and reaches a hand. “Trust me Lexa. I won’t let harm come to you.”

Lexa clenches her jaw, but she seems to really considering it. She squints at her. “You are sure?” she checks.

“I promise. And you know I don’t break promises.” Clarke shrugs then. “At least not to you.”

Lexa sighs, yet Clarke can see she’s won, as Lexa’s shoulders slack and she glares up at her. “I am trusting you wholly Clarke.” She mutters as she mimics Clarke’s climb, grabbing on her outstretched arm and letting Clarke pull her up. She slides in behind her and Clarke smiles as she readies herself. She feels hands slip around her waist and secure themselves.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Clarke grins, and with nothing left to hold them back she taps Jake’s short neck. “Alright, let’s go Jake!”

Jake lets out an excited roar as he bends his legs and raises his wings. Clarke feels Lexa’s grip tighten on her waist, so in assurance Clarke claps a hand over Lexa’s. It seems to work, as the feels the tension that makes Lexa stiff as a board against her back relax slightly. Clarke would have said something more but Jake brings his wings down and suddenly they’re rising up in the air. She hears Lexa’s sharp intake of breath against her ear and grabs their shared grip tighter.

Jake brings them up till they’re above the clouds before he smoothens out their ride, spreading out his wings and letting the wind carry them. They glide above the clouds below them and when Clarke feels the wind through her hair she feels like she’s come home. Except when she glances behind her she sees Lexa’s eyes are shut and she’s working on evening her breathing. Clarke leans back into her more and tilts her head so their faces are next to each other’s.

“Hey,” she whispers softly, and when Lexa doesn’t answer Clarke lifts a hand and gently grabs Lexa’s chin, turning it towards her. “Open your eyes.”

Lexa takes in a sharp breath and Clarke knows her tells by now, so Clarke doesn’t hesitate to lean forward and press her lips gently against Lexa’s. It was something she had learnt early on with her. The easiest way to calm Lexa’s anxiety was to kiss her, to bring her attention on nothing but the two of them, the way their bodies moulded. Clarke kisses her for a short while—perhaps getting a _little_ off track with her original intention—but when she pulls away just enough to break their kiss and her eyes blink open, she sees Lexa in instinct doing the same.

“There you are,” Clarke smiles, and Lexa gives her a sheepish grin in response. “You’re safe. I promise you Lexa.”

Lexa takes in a shuddering breath, but she nods at her, and Clarke thinks that Lexa believes her now.

“Look around,” Clarke calls softly, glancing at the clouds below them, but the more importantly the sun that’s beginning to set in front. “There are few people who will ever see this.”

It seems to be enough. Lexa briefly kisses her again before she straightens herself up and lets herself scan their surroundings. Clarke knows where she should be looking. She knows she should focus on the way the clouds are pink, near bleeding red with the disappearing sun, the gorgeous hue of the sky and the clouds and the _world_ that encompasses them. It’s beautiful, it really, _really_ , is.

But what’s far more beautiful is watching Lexa react to it.

And it’s funny, Clarke thinks, as she watches the way Lexa’s breath gets tangled in her throat and her eyes grow wide and breathtaking. Lexa stares with such innocent wonder that Clarke is powerless to tear her eyes away. But she doesn’t mind, she doesn’t mind at all.

So when Lexa’s eyes finally detach from the scenery around them and lock onto Clarke’s, it’s with growing familiarity that Clarke sees Lexa grow that look again, the one she loves.

When she leans forward to kiss Lexa once more she doesn’t notice the moon rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so, i hope you liked that! would just like to say a sincere thank you for giving the time of day to read my story. whether you liked it or hated it, im just grateful you gave it a chance. wish you all a good one, and a happy holidays to you all as well.  
> also a quick side note that the commander’s spirit thing is partially inspired from Hedatu by Red_Hope. fucking brilliant fic and highly rec you check it out if you haven’t already.
> 
> translations:  
> Branwoda - Fool  
> Nomajoka - Motherfucker  
> Fiya - I'm sorry  
> Klark kom Skaikru - Clarke of the Sky People  
> Hod op. Ai na laik snap - Wait. I will be quick  
> Sha - Yes  
> Sha, Klark - Yes, Clarke  
> Nau Aden! - Now Aden!  
> Yu gonplei ste odon - Your fight is over


End file.
